


On My Own

by charlottepriestly



Series: Music Of The Heart [6]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, But first, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Miranda's P.O.V, Pining, Slow Burn, some depression and loneliness, this fic was inspired by sad music and heartache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottepriestly/pseuds/charlottepriestly
Summary: What do you do when you've fallen in love with a woman much younger than yourself, who only sees you as a friend, and who you cannot bear to let go?
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Series: Music Of The Heart [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/884622
Comments: 161
Kudos: 360





	1. Bleeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "When the Party's Over" by Billie Eilish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing's first, a huge, HUGE thank you to my wonderful, amazing, hilarious beta elle_nic for being such a remarkable editor. And for all the emotional support I needed when writing this story. 
> 
> As always, I recommend listening to the song :) I hope you enjoy, please let me know if you'd like more of this!

_January, 2014_

I never knew I could feel such pain.

Such _longing_.

I could never have imagined she would make me like this. I suppose I should’ve known she'd change everything. More than eight years ago, I took a leap of faith hiring her, and I watched her blossom. It was the most remarkable thing. So thrilling, so satisfying. It was difficult to concentrate on my marriage going up in flames before my very eyes, or the coup Irv was planning. Difficult to linger on my constantly letting down my children every other week and their ensuing tantrums and tears.

It was all drowned out by the calm she brought.

Just thinking about her would settle something inside me. I didn't understand it then, naturally. She was my assistant, and so very young; so naive. I still remember what her eyes were like, full of kindness and compassion; bright with youthful hope. Although her eyes have changed quite a bit since then, the kindness is still there. Now though, they look wiser, more mature, more withdrawn. The brightness has dimmed significantly, and it pains me to see it.

The loss I felt after she deserted me in Paris still feels sharp. I can close my eyes, and perfectly feel the same way I felt when I turned around and she was not there. When I helplessly watched her walk away. She never looked back. I wonder why I ever wanted her to.

It still baffles me how I can recall the pain of her departure so vividly when every other painful experience in my life has faded with time and sheer force of will. But I suppose that Andrea Sachs is the exception to all my previous experiences.

Of course I followed her career. It was the only way I could still feel in touch with her. With every word of hers I read I could hear her voice recite them. Sometimes with passion, other times in outrage or sadness or condemnation. Very rarely with joy. I was surprised, really, because all of her stories were... Well. They were beautifully written and it was no surprise when she was promoted in less than a year. 

But the _sadness_. The number of stories she covered that were confronting and despairing and excruciating to read. She wrote about homelessness, drug addiction, and abuse. She investigated murders, and domestic violence, and the indescribable, inhumane issues of this supposedly great country. Some of her stories I only managed to finish reading by forcing myself.

Sometimes, ignorance truly is bliss.

But I reason that if she can go out there and investigate and spend countless hours writing about such horrors and injustices, then I could at least make it to the end of each article. I think part of me wanted to feel the ensuing pain the articles brought, so that I could feel closer to her. We were grieving together, in a sense. I'm sure her pain was unimaginable, and my own was nothing in comparison. But it was ours. Mine and hers.

I missed her in the six years since we last saw each other. My work, my _life_ was never the same without her. When she was around everything had run smoother than ever. She solved my problems, met every challenge head on. More than that, she succeeded. She seemed to know my expectations, even my needs, sometimes better than I did. It was baffling, and refreshing, that suddenly I had more time for my children and wasted less time chasing after dead ends. She was, in the end, the best assistant I'd ever had. And to think she’d begun in that horrible cerulean sweater and hideous skirt. Unbelievable. But it made her all the more remarkable. 

I went through countless assistants after she left, and not a single one of them was up to snuff. Everything was… not quite wrong, but it didn’t feel right for a very long time. Nobody could do what Andrea did. I remember bragging about that exact same thing regarding myself and my work for the magazine in a car in Paris. But it was true about her as well, even though I didn't know it at the time. Nobody was as kind, thoughtful, or efficient as Andrea.

I missed her honest smiles and easy company, too, but I never lost my mind enough to actually admit that. 

It took me over a year to finally have the office running more or less smoothly. I finally found an assistant that was just about acceptable. It didn't make me miss Andrea any less. I still thought about her and read her work, and felt some vacant part of me wish for something unnameable. Something that would bring back a semblance of the thrill I'd felt every day while she worked for me.

It was only pure luck that we met again, six years after she left me in Paris. I remember so vividly how it happened. How we began again.

_February, 2012_

There was an award ceremony celebrating women in publishing. I knew she'd be there. Her name was becoming increasingly well known in the publishing industry, and after her groundbreaking three-piece narrative on life-threatening, misogynistic examples of abuse against women in New York, I had no doubt that she would be nominated for _“Outstanding Reporting”_. Unsurprisingly, I was right.

I myself was nominated for the insipid category of _"Long-time Influencer"_ , which was beyond ridiculous. An award to make women in the industry feel outdated. I still have much to influence on, thank you very much.

I didn't want to attend but when I saw her name among the other nominees... Well. I didn't want to think too much about it, so I didn't dwell on it. I didn't acknowledge how long it took me to get ready for the evening, or the racks of dresses that I meticulously inspected and tried on and tossed aside, or the twisting nerves I felt on the car journey that threatened to escalate into full-blown nausea.

I simply schooled my features into the cold, uninterested mask I've been hiding behind all my professional life, and made my entrance as if nothing was amiss. People stared, as they always do, and I ignored them, as I always do. But there were a pair of almond eyes in the crowd that I was unable to look past, and the moment I locked eyes with her, I knew tonight would change everything.

And it did.

She won. I knew she would. The other nominees were... acceptable, I suppose. But Andrea was a different force altogether.

I watched from my place at the centre table, feeling the unmistakable rush of pride as I watched her give her speech. She was dressed in a deep red Givenchy that did wonders for her figure, and she was so charming. It was difficult not to feel overwhelmed by how proud I was of her. Even though we hadn't spoken in years, I felt as if I'd been with her every step of her career leading her to this moment. And of course, she would not have that sense of fashion if it weren't for me. As I watched her standing tall, shining under the stage lights, I felt it again for the first time in years.

Thrilling. Intoxicating.

"And last, but certainly not least, I would like to thank someone who's actually here tonight. She taught me, probably better than anyone, what having a successful career is really like as a woman. She taught me what integrity in our industry really is. It's about passion and conviction and resilience. She taught me that this world isn't black and white, and that I should always seek justice and perfection, not only in my work but in life. And that coffee is a must if you want to be successful in publishing," she chuckled, smiling widely when the audience laughed with her. "So, Miranda Priestly- " I sucked in a breath, feeling as if I'd just been punched in the stomach, and wondered if there'd been something wrong with the food. Then I watched, entranced, as her eyes found mine in the crowd. She offered me that smile of hers I had been deprived of for six very long years, and I lost my breath altogether. "Thank you. For everything."

It was impossible to stay away after that.

When I got called up to the stage to collect my own award (cry me a river, _Wintour_ ) I gave a short speech, and did not reciprocate by mentioning Andrea, but I found her in one of the tables to the right and tilted my head towards her with a small smile. I knew she would understand and was proven right when she approached me not one hour afterwards.

The awards had all been given, thank God, and everyone was mingling and drinking champagne and trying to act as if they all actually tolerated each other. I was in a secluded corner of the room, bored to death with some CEO not remarkable enough to recall by name. I was looking for an escape, any reason to take my leave (and my trophy) home for a well-deserved bottle of scotch, when I was rescued from my dilemma by the very reason I had bothered to come to this ceremony in the first place.

"Miranda," she said, and the way she said my name was so sweet that I could hardly draw a response. "Hello."

She was smiling shyly at me. It took her a moment to even realise there was someone stood next to me.

"Oh! I'm so sorry to interrupt. I just wondered if I could have a moment, if that's alright."

"Certainly," I said as smoothly as I could, now that I had regained my composure at seeing her up close. She was the same Andrea I remembered, but she seemed like a different person, somehow. I turned to the old man that had been boring me nearly to tears. "Might we continue this conversation some other time?"

The man was perfectly polite, and said his farewells before taking his leave, but I hardly paid any attention to him.

"Andrea," I said, and was taken aback by how it felt to have her name roll off my tongue for the first time in so long. It left a bitter-sweet taste in my mouth. "Congratulations."

She smiled, and nodded at my own award left forgotten on the tall cocktail table behind me.

"Congratulations to you, too."

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly, although my next words were harsh. "Oh, please. You and I both know that category is ridiculous."

Andrea snickered, and nodded sheepishly before lifting her gaze to mine again. "It's good to see you, Miranda. How are you? How have things been?"

"You mean in the past six years?" She cringed slightly, but nodded. "Much as they've always been. Irv retired, as I'm sure you've heard, although I certainly had nothing to do with it," I smirked conspiratorially, and she let out a peal of laughter that was the most genuine reaction to my humour I'd heard in a long time. "And as you know, Nigel is doing well with his very own magazine now, away from my overbearing claws- "

"And I'm sure you had nothing to do with _that_ either, hm?"

"Why, certainly not, Andrea. Whatever are you suggesting?"

She was smiling at me, eyes alight, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room and the excitement of the evening. This banter was so easy, so enchanting, that I finally let myself relax in- well, I don't know exactly how long it'd been. Andrea had always had this effect on me, after all. Soothing. Calming.

"And how are the girls? They must be, what, seventeen?"

"Eighteen, actually. They're in their senior year of high school."

"Oh my God," Andrea breathed, and brought a hand up to her forehead. "They grow up so fast. It's scary to think about."

"You're telling me," I answered, and it was refreshing to actually talk about this subject with someone who didn't nod blankly or judge my parenting. "I'm the one who's had to watch them get older and more rebellious, when it seems like yesterday they were asking for ice cream and bedtime stories. It seems unreal that they're off to college in six months." I'd only recently managed to wrap my head around the fact that my babies would be leaving the nest in just a handful of months, and it stirred too many emotions to dwell on. I didn't even want to think about how it would feel when they were actually gone, and it was just me in that big, quiet house-

"I can't imagine," Andrea said, pulling me out of my reverie and, seeming to feel my melancholy, drifted the subject to something a little lighter. "What are they going to study?"

"Caroline is set on architecture, and has been applying abroad. Some places in Europe seem very promising, and she's set on trying to get into Oxford. And Cassidy is thinking about going into law and sociology, but has mercifully decided to stay in the country. She's trying for California."

"Wow, that's amazing! I hope they both go where they wish, I remember them being intelligent to a worrying degree."

"Don't I know it," I chuckled. "But what about you, Andrea? How have you been? Apart from taking the journalism world by storm, that is."

She laughed coyly and pushed her hair back behind her ear in an endearingly nervous manner. "Well, I've been focusing on work a lot. It's kind of taken over my life, really, but I love it. It's hard work sometimes, especially because the topics I deal with are pretty... well, they're tough. But I'd like to think that my writing helps someone, at least."

I hummed in acknowledgment, not willing to let on that I'd meticulously read each and every article she'd written since she left my employ.

"It takes a lot of bravery and strength of character to write about the most difficult subjects, some unimaginable tragedies and enraging injustices. You help a lot of people through your work, Andrea. Never doubt that." She blinked at me, taken aback, and I felt a small glimmer of satisfaction at rendering her speechless. But what I'd said was absolutely true, and she should know it as a fact, not a possibility.

"Oh," she breathed, and swallowed thickly. "Well, I mean- thank you, Miranda. That means a lot coming from you."

I tilted my head, and observed the thoughtful look on her face as she took her lower lip between her teeth. I left her to her thoughts, enjoying the comfortable silence that filled the space between us. It had always been like this, back when she'd worked for me. Well, once she started excelling at her job, at least. After she learned how to read me better than anyone, it was so easy to be with her in silence, whether in elevators or in the back of cars or late at night in the office.

I looked around the room in a bored fashion, and suddenly wished to be somewhere more private, where we could both let down our guard more. Somewhere quiet.

"Would you like to come over for a nightcap?" The words spilled out of my mouth before I could even think them. We looked at each other, both slightly startled by my offer. It only took me a second to take it in stride and tilt my chin up as if I had planned to invite her all along. It took her a moment longer before she stuttered out a surprised response. 

"Y-Yeah. I mean, yes. That'd be nice."

I was even more surprised that she accepted my offer, and I just barely managed to fight back a smile.

It only took fifteen minutes to arrive at the townhouse, since my driver had been waiting at the entrance the moment we left the ceremony. The ride was quiet, and if I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine that it was six years earlier; that she was still working for me, that nothing had changed. I could pretend that my daughters weren't leaving me and that Andrea had stayed. That she was still the same young woman blissfully unaware of the tragedies happening every day in this god forsaken city.

I was swept up in it all. In mourning and remembrance. When I next opened my eyes we were parked before my home. I led the way up the stairs, inside, and to the small den on the first floor. The moment I climbed the last step, I turned to offer her something to drink. In that moment, looking down at her as she stood three steps bellow me, I was almost knocked over by a flashback to one night long ago, when Andrea had walked in on one of my many fights with Stephen, the Book clutched like a protective shield against her chest, brown eyes wide with terror.

Andrea looked so different tonight, so grown up, and yet somehow the same. She was looking up at me, and she must have had the same memory as I did, because she grinned cheekily at me, and lifted her shoulders in embarrassment. The gesture was so charming that I could not fight back a smile this time, and the corners of my mouth lifted in amusement at the shared memory hanging unspoken between us.

I shook out of it quickly enough, and continued on my way to the den. We placed our awards side by side at the end of the coffee table, and as Andrea took a seat and accepted my wine offer, I made my way to the discreet bar in the corner and brought out a bottle of red with two glasses. After pouring each of us a generous amount, I made the bold decision to sit beside her, instead of across from her. Sitting side by side on the couch felt comfortable, and I immediately kicked off my heels before curling my legs under me.

We talked idly for some time, sipping our drinks, and under any other circumstances I would hate small talk. I usually always do. Except this was _Andrea_ , and her voice sounded softer than it had when she'd been my assistant. Deeper, somehow. And her _eyes_. They were just as lovely, but there was something in them that unsettled me. Some haunting sadness that had never been there before, a grief that tore at something deep within my chest.

When I offered her a second glass after we'd both drank the first, she shook her head.

"I can't," she said, and something about the way she said it, her rigid posture, made me frown.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I'm not really supposed to drink," she bit her lip, and looked away. "It doesn't go well with my medication, and I usually limit myself to just one glass of wine."

"Medication?" I asked, and felt my heart lurch unpleasantly. "Are you ill?"

"No! No- well, I mean, _yes_ , technically- but it's not- it's not serious, or anything."

The worry I felt gripped my chest even harder than it did before, but I did not want to pressure her. I willed myself to lean back against the cushions, and waited patiently for her to elaborate. A long silence followed, and I tried my best to stay calm as I watched the apprehension roll off her in waves.

"I'm on antidepressants," she whispered.

It felt like a bucket of ice cold water had been dumped over my head. I drew a shaky breath, hoping that the unpleasant turmoil of emotions wreaking havoc inside me would let up enough for me to find my voice.

"Andrea-"

"I've been on them for less than a year. I did a story about domestic violence against children, and there was one child in particular--" She took a trembling breath, and I opened my eyes to see her staring down at her hands, which were clutching a pillow against her stomach. "I'd interviewed her while she was under child protective services, and I'd taken her to the park to get ice cream. She was the sweetest little girl, barely eight years old, and she was so _happy_ when I bought her an ice cream cone." She bit her lip again, and her knuckles turned white where she gripped the pillow. "A month later, she was beaten to death by her father when he got custody over her again."

I shut my eyes, and brought up a hand to press against my lips. I could not imagine- could not even fathom what it must have been like for Andrea. I felt sick.

"I wrote about her, an obituary of sorts, because people needed to know. They need to know how some children live, how some are _killed_ \- " Andrea cut herself off with a noise that sounded terribly like a sob, and I opened my eyes to see tears clinging to her dark eyelashes.

I immediately moved closer, and took Andrea's hand in mine.

"I know, I know," I said in the most soothing voice possible. "I read that piece, and thought it was one of the best writing you'd done." I hadn't meant to reveal that, but Andrea was in distress, and I ached for her. "It was terrible what happened, but you helped so many people with your cover of that story, Andrea. You made an impact. You made a _difference_ , and so many children are safer now because of you."

I put as much sincerity and conviction as I could into my words. Andrea finally looked up at me, and took a breath. She seemed to come back to herself, calmer and more composed. It was astonishing to watch how quickly she gathered herself, considering the amount of grief and impotence she must have felt after the girl’s death.

"Thank you," she said, her voice hoarse. I rubbed my thumb over her palm in soothing circles. She reached up to wipe her tears away, even though they hadn't even fallen down her cheeks.

"Anyways," she continued, and sniffed lightly. "After that, things just started hitting me, you know? I'd been running on adrenaline, writing story after story, and I just didn't let myself _feel_. I put all my feeling into writing the stories, but after that, I moved on to the next thing so I wouldn't have to _think_ about what I'd written. I just kept suppressing all these feelings and accumulating all this pain, and after _that_ happened- after Melissa was killed- it all came spilling out. 

“I couldn't work for two weeks because I was a complete mess. So I started going to therapy, and I was put on antidepressants. Because I was depressed, but mostly because I wanted to keep doing my job. I _needed_ to keep doing my job. So, I'm on medication, and I can't drink more than one glass of wine, but at least I can still help people. Make a difference, as you said."

I nodded in understanding, although I couldn't begin to understand what she'd been through. I could not begin to imagine.

"And are you better now?" I asked, hoping with everything in me that she was. "Are you happier?"

She nodded, and I almost let out a sigh of relief. "I am. I mean, as happy as I can be, really. At least my boyfriend is very supportive, and he understands the whole depression thing. He also works just as crazy hours as I do, so it works."

My stomach dropped then. I tried to blame it on the food from earlier, since the soup had been less than stellar, and the fish had seemed unreliable at best. Or maybe it just didn't mix well with the champagne, and the wine. Only then did I realise I was still holding her hand, and I pulled away. I took my wine glass again, and swallowed as much as I could in one mouthful.

"What does he do?" I asked, despite the lead I felt weighing down the words.

"He's a doctor, so you can imagine the contradicting schedules. We met when I started going to therapy, actually. He works in the same building."

"Ah," I said, and suddenly felt inexplicably foolish. "Well."

I didn't know what else to say. I tried to come up with something, anything, but I came empty-handed. All I could do was take another swallow of wine, and hope that the feeling in my stomach would ease up soon, because it was starting to become painful.

"Anyways, sorry for dumping all of that on you," Andrea said with a small smile that didn't really reach her eyes. "I'm sure it wasn't what you expected when you invited me to a nightcap, huh?"

I took another swallow, and tried to numb myself from the chest down.

"Nonsense, there's nothing to apologise for. I'm just-" I took a breath, and forced myself to look into deep pools of chocolate, despite the tightening in my chest. "I'm sorry you've had to go through all that. I can't imagine how difficult it must be."

"Oh, no," she shook her head. "No, I mean, I'm one of the privileged ones. I get to tell these stories, I'm not the one living them. _That's_ truly difficult. No matter how much I write about them, I can't imagine what it's like to experience it first-hand."

Once again, I didn't know how to respond. This girl, this _woman_ , would put her mental health on the line and spent her days filling her mind with the most tragic stories of real-life horrors… Her selflessness humbled me. I desperately desired to take every woe inside her and carry it within myself. To revive the young, lively, free-spirited Andrea I had met. The Andrea that hadn’t been exposed to the cruelties of life. It was painful to know the woman I once knew had slipped away, smothered by the horrible things she'd witnessed in just six years. 

_Six years._

What would it be like in five more? In ten? In _twenty_? Would Andrea still _be_ Andrea? Would she retain any of her vibrancy, that joyful smile and twinkling eyes? Or would she be a shell of the person she once was, drawn out and dragged down by all of life’s barbarisms she wrote about? Or would she become one of those unfeeling reporters that became so addicted to numbing the pain, they were unable to feel anything at all? The thought alone made me feel ill.

"It's getting late," Andrea said, and I was jolted back to the present with a tightness in my throat and my stomach rolling unpleasantly. "I should go."

I nodded silently and stood to show her out.

When we got to the foyer, after she donned her coat, she turned to me with a smile, but this one was much dimmer than the ones I had seen earlier this evening, and it was nothing in comparison to the bright, joyful ones she had given me under my employ.

"Thank you for tonight, Miranda," she said, and I forced myself to smile back, even if it felt strained against my cheeks. "I'd like to return the favour some day, if you like. You know how to reach me, in case you ever feel like calling."

"I do," I said. Part of me was thrilled by the offer despite the gloom that had draped itself over my shoulders like a suffocating blanket. I opened the door, holding it open for her and letting the brisk winter air breathe some life back into me. "I'll call you when I'm free."

"I'll look forward to it," she said, and this time her smile seemed livelier, like she really felt it this time. "Goodnight, Miranda."

"Goodnight."

I watched her walk past the doorway, down the steps, and away from me. Again. It was inexplicable, _unfathomable_ , why it hurt to watch her leave as much as it hurt the last time. My eyes followed her as she made her way down the street until she disappeared from sight. I took a trembling breath, and shut the door.

The house was unbearably silent. I wished my daughters were here, instead of with their father. I wished for many things, even as I reprimanded myself for wishful thinking.

I slowly made my way up the stairs, the lead on my chest dragging me down until I was hardly able to stand straight. It had been long years of feeling like I was crawling on my hands and knees, like I barely had the strength in me to continue with the facade I'd spent decades perfecting. But on this night, after seeing Andrea for the first time since she'd abandoned me in Paris, after hearing her sorrows and her torments, after seeing her downcast eyes and her faltering smiles. It felt like I had met someone else entirely.

Any strength I had left abandoned me at once. Andrea from six years ago was lost, and, against my better judgement, I found myself hoping that she wasn’t truly gone.

After all, I live on hope.

_Don't you know I'm no good for you?_

_I've learned to lose you, can't afford to_

_Tore my shirt to stop you bleeding_

_But nothing ever stops you leaving_


	2. Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to my darling elle_nic for being such an incredible beta <3
> 
> I wanted to clarify the timeline of this fic. It is set in January 2014, more than 8 years since Andy worked at Runway and almost 2 years after Miranda & Andy met again. Miranda acts as a narrator of sorts, and the story will jump to the past at least once each chapter as a flashback of a poignant moment in Miranda's life and her friendship with Andrea.
> 
> It was my birthday two days ago so I thought I'd update as a little gift from me to you, I hope you enjoy this chapter! :) Please let me know what you think, your comments make me so happy xx

_January, 2014_

After that night, everything began to change.

I did, in fact, call her. I waited three weeks to do so, and used my busy schedule as an excuse for taking so long to reach out to her. The truth is that I was scared. Seeing her again was wonderful, and it felt good to be in her presence after so many years. But I hadn’t expected it to be quite so painful _._ I spent the entire day after the ceremony lounging at home, unable to concentrate on my work or muster the strength to do anything. I felt so drained; I needed to regain my bearings.

When I finally worked up the courage to see her again nearly a month after, I was better prepared. I felt ready, more in control. She seemed better, too; more like her old self. She wanted to invite me to lunch, but I paid for the meal while she was in the bathroom, and when she sputtered indignantly, I raised my eyebrow and she immediately stopped her protests. I was not going to let her pay and once she realised this she was very gracious. From then onwards, every time we went out to eat or drink coffee, she would not fight to pay. I found immense satisfaction in that.

Developing our friendship was slow, at first. Our schedules were a nightmare to coordinate, and most of my free time was spent with my daughters. There was a constant timer at the back of my mind counting down the days until my babies left home. I felt like I was clinging to every second, every hug, every laugh, even as they slipped through my fingers. It was a slow torture, and nothing could have prepared me for it. The only mercy was that menopause was a year behind me, otherwise I would have been an emotional wreck. No doubt, I would've had fits of crying at odd hours just thinking about them leaving.

So yes, it was a slow beginning with Andrea. Between our schedules, my daughters, her boyfriend, and the fact that we were still trying to figure out how to interact in this new way, it took a few months before we got truly comfortable with each other. I tried my best to be a shoulder to lean on when things got bad, or when a particular story took its toll on her. 

I'd never been the comforting, doting type - except with my daughters, of course. But with Andrea... I felt such fierce protectiveness towards her, such determination to shield her as much as I could from any pain and hardship. The sensation took me by surprise at first. It was certainly an adjustment, especially because I felt so _helpless._ I could not take away her sorrow and her despair, no matter how much I wanted to. It didn't take me long to realise that if I had the choice, I would take away her pain and keep it far from her, locked away in my own chest. But the most I could do was take her hand in mine, to offer reassurance, to listen when she needed to talk, or distract her when she needed to stop thinking.

When my girls left at the end of summer, I felt such an acute sense of loss, it was a near physical ache. Caroline had gone to Oxford, and Cassidy to California, and I was left feeling empty and alone. I tried my best to keep busy. Probably too hard. Between the odd lunch meetings with Andrea here and there, my time was consumed by work in a way it hadn't been in my twenty-two years at the helm of _Runway_. 

Now that my girls were gone, I had no reason to pretend I had anything better to occupy myself with. It was as if I had nothing but work and Andrea to keep me going. But Andrea was a busy person, so I threw myself into work with a voracious determination. I was at the office everyday for at least twelve hours, and most nights I worked until I could hardly keep my eyes open. But no matter what I did, each time I went home, I walked through the door and felt a misery so stifling I could hardly bear it.

Silence had never been so deafening. Nothing moved, nothing changed. No cups or bowls left in the sink from the girls’ breakfasts. I had hated that poor habit of theirs but now I would do anything for a sense of life in the daunting place I lived. Nothing distracted me from the crushing loneliness that drowned me in its emptiness. I wished every night that Patricia was still here, so I wouldn't feel so loveless. So _lonely._

I'd never felt despair before. It was not an emotion I knew, because Miranda Priestly had never had much use for such a plebeian, _weak_ emotion. But each night, without fail, when I spent hours in that house - so dark, so _quiet_ \- my despair was suffocating. I would catch myself wondering the different floors aimlessly, mourning each memory that consumed me.

I wish I'd been better, treasured my time with them more when they were small and innocent and always willing to spend time with me. I wish I'd made them more of a priority, and sacrificed more of _Runway_ for them. The first time I willed myself to go into their abandoned rooms I’d sat on their beds unable to hold back the tears, looking around as I felt my heart sinking into unfathomable grief. 

It felt like only yesterday these very rooms were filled with toys and colour palettes and princess dresses. I desperately wished I could turn back the clock, go back in time and do it all again. But they were gone. My girls. _My Bobbseys._

After almost two months of notoriously long hours, skipped meals, and little sleep, I was hanging on by a thread. It felt as though I was losing myself. As though I did not know how to _be_ without my daughters. Without anyone to make me feel human. I felt like a robot, a former woman possessed by some sort of demonic isolation. I was foolish and ran myself to the ground. Quite literally.

I fainted - _fainted_ \- in the middle of a run-through. How humiliating, how preposterous and _immature_. Serena had to help me to the couch while my assistant called the doctor, and he sent me home and forbade me - forbade _me_ \- from going into work for two days. I only relented because I felt almost deliriously weak, but the moment I stepped into my house, the gripping, desolate claws of anguish were seizing me once more. Before I even had a moment to think about what I was doing, I was calling Andrea. I will never forget that call.

_"Miranda?" I knew she was surprised at receiving my call. It was a Wednesday afternoon, after all._

_"Andrea." My voice was so hollow, it pained me to hear it. Her name usually sounded lovely on my tongue, but my voice was trembling, and she could hear it as clearly as I._

_"What's wrong? What happened?"_

_"Nothing," I lied, and for once, I was completely transparent despite my best efforts. "I just... I - "_

_"I'm coming over," she said, and the clear concern in her voice lifted some of the crushing pressure on my chest. "Are you at home?"_

_"Home," I repeated blankly, feeling so out of touch with the word that for a moment I forgot this house was supposed to feel like my home. "Yes, I'm--Yes."_

_"Okay, be there in ten minutes. Do you want me to stay on the line?"_

I didn't answer, but that was answer enough for her. She talked about idle things; what her day had been like, the delicious onion bagel she'd had for breakfast, the latest updates about her family. It kept me grounded while I awaited her arrival. She stayed on the phone until she was at my door, and the moment I let her in, she wrapped her arms around me.

Oh _God,_ it felt like forever since someone had hugged me, or gave me genuine physical affection. She didn't ask questions, didn't force me to talk about my disgraceful spectacle at work. She simply ordered take out for the both of us (she'd been dismayed at my empty fridge, and had me call my assistant to have her buy my groceries), and spent the evening with me. We sat together, talking and reading and watching old movies. And for the first time since my daughters had left two months before, I felt a little like myself again.

After that, Andrea became a shoulder to lean on. She did her best to support me through the grief of my daughters leaving, and I did my best to help her in any way I could. It was difficult, because no matter how much I tried, I would never really _know_ what she went through, all the sorrow she experienced on a daily basis. But it became easy to rely on our companionship as a constant source of comfort and understanding. I never felt judged by her, never for a second. I learnt to let my guard down fully whenever I was with her.

It was refreshing to be in the company of someone who was unapologetically herself with me. She never tried to hide or deceive, she never had ulterior motives or hidden agendas. Andrea was always truthful, and never hesitated to tell me what she needed, whether it be someone to listen, or distract her, or sit quietly with her. 

She was doing well in therapy, and it was a relief to know that she was getting better with each session. I was so very proud of her. Despite my reservations the first night we met each other again, I quickly realised that Andrea was far, far stronger than I could have ever imagined. 

I was in constant awe of her, and marvelled at her determination to continue her plight for personal happiness despite everything she dealt with on a daily basis. She was always hopeful, and avidly believed that there was good and beauty all around. It was so inspiring, and rather inexplicable all at once.

I wish I could be like that: faithful, courageous, convictable and perseverant in being joyful despite everything. I was simply not made that way. No matter how much I tried, I always focussed on the negatives and let the joy seep out of me like a bleeding wound. The only real source of optimism and happiness were my daughters and Andrea, but when they were not with me, when I was left alone to my thoughts, I felt lost.

The only thing that never failed to bring me comfort in my silent brooding states was knowing that Andrea and I were truly at ease with each other now. It was reassuring that, as proven by how quickly she dropped everything and came to my aid when I was on the brink of self-destruction (it took me a long time and months of therapy to realise that was exactly what it was), I could call her if I ever felt the need to. It was the most heartening thing in my otherwise hollow life. 

_November, 2012_

My phone rang with Andrea's signature ringtone, and I placed the Book aside to answer it.

"Good evening, Andrea."

"Miranda, hi! How are you?"

I smirked, and rolled my eyes. "Much the same as I was yesterday, and the day before."

Andrea had taken to calling me almost daily after I mentioned a few weeks ago how I was starting to hate silence. Something which had once brought me some peace and quiet in my hectic life had now become an oppressive omen of my loneliness. I took to collecting vinyl records, and there was almost always one playing whenever I was home. Andrea had caught on to everything I'd left unspoken, and now took it upon herself to offer me idle conversation on quiet evenings like this one.

And honestly, how the girl had so perfectly understood just from me saying "silence is overrated" was beyond me. I suppose I'd underestimated just how well she could read me.

"What are you doing tomorrow evening?"

I frowned, trying to remember if there was anything on my schedule for Friday. "Nothing comes to mind, why?"

"Just wondering. I was thinking maybe I could come over and make you dinner."

I let out a huff of surprised laughter. Andrea really was full of surprises. "Let me see if I understand. _You_ want to come to my house and cook for _me?_ "

"Yup."

"And what shall I do in the meantime?" I couldn't suppress the smile curling at my lips anymore.

"You can sit back and relax, drink some of that scotch you love so much, and give me some good conversation. Sounds good?"

I chuckled. Andrea was unlike anyone I'd ever met before. Coming from anyone else, I would scoff at the proposed plans and rebuff them with some acerbic, cutting remark. But when it was Andrea offering, it was different. Tempting. Practically my ideal evening plans.

"I think that sounds good," I relented, even though I had not put up much of a fight to begin with. "Come over at seven."

"Be there are six forty-five," she retorted, and I just knew she was grinning that triumphant smile of hers. "I'll let you get back to work, unless you'd rather chat?"

The offer was thoughtful, but I did have a lot of the Book to go through still, and it was already getting late. "I have to keep correcting the errors of my incompetent staff, but I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good luck with that," she snickered, and then her voice softened. "Goodnight, Miranda."

"Goodnight."

The line went dead, and I felt lighter than I had all day.

The next evening, Andrea arrived perfectly punctual as always, and entertained me to a rather amusing spectacle of watching her cook. I did offer to help, but she brushed it off, and I simply sat back with a glass of scotch as she fluttered around my kitchen in her quest to make vegetable risotto for two. She'd even brought music with her, and was playing an upbeat, happy tune that made the house feel full of life.

"I think I might get a cat."

She nearly dropped her spatula, and I couldn't help but laugh at her startled expression.

"I've always thought you were a dog person!"

"A person can love both dogs _and_ cats, Andrea." I rolled my eyes, and she snorted as she turned back to the stove.

"Well, I think a cat would really suit you, now that I think of it. But don't get too ahead of yourself," she said, waving the spatula at me and raising an amused eyebrow in a move no doubt subconsciously replicated from me. "Only one cat at a time, okay? Don't become one of those awful cat ladies with ten spoiled cats."

"Honestly, Andrea, don't be ridiculous."

"Promise me," she said, leaning her fists on her hips and looking at me with a faux stern expression.

I rolled my eyes again, but lifted my hand and crossed my heart. "I promise. One cat at a time. Happy?"

She grinned, very obviously trying not to laugh. "Very much so."

The risotto was delicious, of course. I had learned early on that Andrea loved to cook, and I was more than happy to let her loose in my kitchen, seeing as my own culinary capabilities left a lot to be desired. The conversation was even better than the food, and Andrea indulged in a single glass of wine afterwards, when we were lounging in the den.

"You know," she said in what I now recognised as her thoughtful tone. "If someone had told me six years ago that I'd be hanging out with Miranda Priestly, I would have had them sent to a mental asylum."

I snorted, and took another sip of my whiskey. I was rather tipsy by this point, but I felt deliciously full, and Andrea's company made me feel relaxed enough that I didn't feel the need to censor myself. "I'm glad you have such faith in my companionship."

She laughed, and bumped her knee against mine playfully. "Oh, you know what I mean," she said, and then her face softened, becoming serious but with a lightness in her eyes that drew me in. There was a brief moment of silence as we watched each other, and I waited earnestly for her to continue. "I'm just - I'm really glad you're my friend, Miranda."

 _Oh._

She robbed me of breath for a moment. I was so caught off guard by her sincerity. Her words were so healing, like a balm filling all the broken fractures of my soul, lifting any mournful weights that had settled so solidly on my consciousness. _Friends_. Nobody had ever said they were glad to be my friend. I'd forgotten what it could feel like to have genuine friendship, and I felt so honoured, so _thrilled_ that I had Andrea as a friend. Sweet, caring, thoughtful Andrea.

"I'm very glad you're my friend, too," I whispered, because my voice did not feel steady and I feared what she would hear in my tone if I spoke too clearly. And really, how had it taken me this long to really believe we were friends? Now that she'd said it out loud with such ease, it was so _obvious_ to me that I felt lightheaded by the revelation. 

She smiled that brilliant smile of hers, her lips becoming impossibly fuller and more beautiful, her dark eyes shining with unrestrained joy. I'd always marvelled at her capacity to show herself so truthfully before me, wearing her emotions upon her sleeve without shame or hidden agendas. It was a beautiful thing; a thing of novelty for me. I suddenly got the overwhelming desire to pull her closer, to hug her against me, bury my face on her shoulder, let myself melt into the sweetness of her scent and the softness of her hair.

I swallowed thickly, and forced myself to look away.

"Shit, is that the time?" she exclaimed when she caught sight of the clock on the wall, She placed her nearly empty glass of wine on the coffee table in front of us. "I'm so sorry, Miranda, but I really have to go. I promised Paul I'd be home before midnight. We're gonna try to go to the farmer's market bright and early tomorrow before his shift at the hospital."

My elation disintegrated in an instant, burnt by a sharp disappointment and a cutting dread until my earlier joy fell to the ground like burnt ashes. It felt like char at the back of my throat, and the heaviness that bore down upon me so relentlessly returned once more.

"Of course," I said, and was surprised by how emotionless my voice sounded, despite the familiar clutches of sorrow gripping my chest. "I'll walk you out."

We silently made our way down to the foyer, and I did my best not to stare as she donned her coat. I tried to tell myself to stop being so ridiculous, so goddamn _needy._ I was simply being a foolish, lonely old woman. I had no right to feel this way. Of course Andrea had a life outside of me. She deserved to be happy, and I should feel happy for her that she had someone who loved her. Someone to stay up late with, to comfort her and hold her. Someone to go to the farmer's market with. It was unfair that I wanted more time with her. It was not right. I felt so rotten, so hideous and selfish. Andrea was my friend, and I should be happy with that. That should be _enough_. 

So no matter what it felt like to watch her walk away from me once again, no matter how the ache in my chest became more and more agonising, no matter how rapidly the arduous emptiness returned with its lonely vice, I repeated to myself, again and again.

This is okay. This is how it's meant to be.

_Quiet when I'm coming home and I'm on my own_

_I could lie, say I like it like that,_

_I like it like that_


	3. Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who take the time to comment, you keep this fandom alive and thriving by doing so.
> 
> Much love to everyone, please take care of yourselves x

_January, 2014_

Once Andrea had openly said we were friends, there was no holding back. Which, considering who I am as a person, was quite the shock. At least it was to me. Andrea took it in stride as if it was the most normal thing in the world. As if I actually had deep, personal conversations with other people. It was challenging at first, certainly. But once I got accustomed to openly talking about myself, and my thoughts and feelings, instead of hiding behind vague insinuations and fake reassurances, it actually felt... _liberating_. 

It was most strange. I never spoke about my thoughts and feelings towards Andrea, of course. I would be taking that to the grave, because the last thing I wanted to do was compromise our friendship. Even though I really didn't know what exactly it was that I felt for her. I just knew that ‘friends’ did not feel like enough; that I craved to have her with me all the time. I wanted to hold on a little longer every time she hugged me (which became a regular thing we did whenever we saw each other-- yet another adjustment --because no one ever dared to embrace me but my daughters). 

And if every time she mentioned her boyfriend _Paul_ I felt a sour taste at the back of my throat and my chest burning unpleasantly? I simply brushed it aside and did not dwell. But of course, there was always that god-forsaken _ache_ whenever I watched her leave. I couldn't understand it, but it was always there, without fail. It had become second nature to brace myself every time we said our goodbyes.

Regardless of all the unspoken things, all my buried secrets and incomprehensible feelings, it felt good to _talk_ to Andrea. She was a wonderful listener, and her sympathy knew no bounds. She never judged me for anything I told her, never changed her opinion of me. She smiled, and listened, and offered her thoughts when she perceived they were welcome.

I told her about my marriages. How Stephen had been more of a business deal and less about love and how my relationship with Greg had deteriorated the moment he found out he was going to be a father. The ensuing pregnancy that I had to handle all by myself, difficult and excruciating as it was. I told her about the birth of my children, and how incredibly challenging it had been to be a single mother of twins. I revealed all my doubts and my fears about my abilities as a mother, and whether I had done a good enough job raising my girls. I told her how I'd felt when they left for college, even though by the time I spoke of it out loud, I did not feel quite as much loss or anguish as I did initially. It was still painful, and my house was still agonising in its silent stillness most of the time. But it had gotten slightly better.

Especially after adopting Medusa, a beautiful cat with long white fur and striking eyes of different colours - one deep blue, one a light shade of brown. She'd immediately grabbed my attention when I went to the animal sanctuary, and the moment she saw me, I felt like the chosen one. She had latched on to me and purred in delight when I stroked behind her ears, so of course I had taken her home with me that very afternoon. Andrea had been immediately smitten with her, and when I revealed the name I chose for the elegant feline, she had doubled over in laughter. It really _was_ refreshing to have someone appreciate my sense of humour.

Still, more often than not, whenever I came home each night, I still felt painfully alone. A cat could only do so much in the way of curing this god forsaken loneliness. And it's not like I could expect Andrea to be available to me all the time. That was _ridiculous._

I didn't want to think about what it was like for Andrea to go home every day. She probably looked forward to it each day, probably felt relief to go home after a busy day working, and I'm sure the silence wouldn't bother her so. I didn't want to think about how she had someone to talk to each night, someone to hold, someone to love her. I _certainly_ didn't want to imagine what it would be like to come home to Andrea. 

Would she be waiting for me, curled up somewhere with a book? Or would she be in the kitchen, covered in flour and dancing along to her usual upbeat music? Would she be eager to embrace me the moment she saw me at the end of a long day? Would we stand next to each other while we took off the day's makeup and brushed our teeth? Would she push her tiredness away so we could spend hours in bed talking in quiet voices, our bodies close enough to touch?

I vanquished these thoughts the moment they flitted through my mind. Images of what could be. Of what I _wanted_ to be. These thoughts made me feel sick, made my stomach turn with something indescribable, and I knew that I would never again allow myself to think of such things. So I did what I do best: I lied to myself, and pretended as if nothing was amiss. I allowed my friendship with Andrea to continue on its path to deeper knowledge and understanding about one another, without letting myself dwell on any feelings or thoughts that overstepped the boundaries of friendship.

Despite my instincts to keep certain elements of my past to myself, I opened up about things I had never told anyone before. I told her about my childhood. About my kind father and my cruel mother. About how I left at the age of seventeen for a better life, and reinvented myself as Miranda Priestly. 

I even told her about the abortion I had when I was twenty-one, how terrified I'd been despite knowing it was the right thing to do. No matter what I revealed to her, Andrea never looked at me with any reservations or judgement or condemnation. She accepted everything I told her, embraced it with her kind smile and soft eyes, and I felt burden upon burden being lifted from my shoulders. Weights I had carried around with me for decades. Because of her, I finally found peace in the pain and the shame I'd felt about my past for so long. I hadn't even realised how much baggage I'd been dragging around with me until I opened up to her.

After talking to Andrea about such things, I realised that maybe there was merit in talking to someone about certain personal things. I knew that I could not burden Andrea with absolutely _everything_ \- the only reason I had even talked to her so truthfully was because Andrea herself shared with me in return. It felt reciprocated when she spoke about her family, her happy childhood, and her rebellious university years. She talked to me about work, because that seemed to be what weighed most heavily on her, and every so often spoke about her boyfriend, and I tried my best to play the role of supportive friend who wanted to know about their relationship. Mutual confiding.

That was one of the hardest things to listen to, I'm ashamed to admit. Even when she spoke about the tragedies and horrors she wrote about, I could handle those things, even when they made me sick with agony and despair and rage. Those conversations ignited such protectiveness in me that my main focus was never the people involved, but _Andrea._

When she spoke about her boyfriend, all I felt was that familiar icy sensation in my chest, like acid in my lungs. I hardly ever knew what to say, because try as I might I simply could not make myself _like_ Paul, even though Andrea clearly loved him. No matter how sweet he was to her, or how thoughtful or supportive, _something_ always made me hold back. All I could do was try to feel happy for her, in the most honest way I could.

I knew deep down that there was something wrong with me. There was something dark and rotten inside me, and I was afraid of it. I didn't understand it back then, although with time it became clear. I knew I needed help, and now that I'd realised the wonders of talking to someone, the relief of putting things out in the open and expressing myself, I made a decision that was very uncharacteristic of me, to say the least.

_April, 2013_

"I think I'm going to start going to therapy."

Andrea looked up at me from her book, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Oh? That's wonderful!" She smiled, and seemed genuine in her delight. "You know I wholeheartedly believe everyone should go to therapy, even if they think they don't need it, because everyone needs help every once in a while. I do wish there wasn't such a stigma around it though," she said, frowning. Then she shook her head, and seemed to regain her focus. "But what made you decide to go? Do you wanna talk about it?"

I let out a breath. I couldn't really tell her that she had awakened something in me. And it wasn't the realisation of how valuable talking about one's thoughts was. It was something that was eating me up inside. I couldn't understand it, or control it, and I desperately needed answers. Especially because I was starting to fear that my friendship with her would suffer in the long run if I didn't talk to someone about this.

"I just realised how nice it is to talk to someone about all my deepest darkest secrets," I said, forcing myself to smirk in jest.

She snorted and rolled her eyes.

The week after that, I began going to therapy with Dr. Angela Riera.

I hadn't known what to expect, exactly. Andrea had spoken to me about it and answered some of my most burning questions, so I felt vaguely prepared for the general procedure of the first session. But I had no clue who the woman was, or what to expect from her.

As it turned out, she was a perfectly nice woman, with an easy smile and a calmness about her that made me feel inexplicably relaxed. With the comfort of an ironclad NDA contract, I felt at ease with this stranger, and wondered how much Andrea had really influenced me in my interactions with other people.

She introduced herself, and spoke a little about herself to establish some common ground (as Andrea had told me was usually done by high-end mental health professionals). She'd then asked me some questions about myself, and after that it was easy to let it all spill from me like an overflowing vase.

I spoke to her of my history with Andrea, what it had been like when she'd worked for me, what it had felt like when she left. I told her about how we'd reconnected, six years later, and had been friends for nearly a year and a half now. I spoke about my girls leaving for college, my desolation, and my improvement since Andrea started helping me. How we became closer. How she understood me like nobody else, and I respected her like I'd never respected anyone before, and how much I wanted to protect her, to take her pain away, to keep her safe from the brutalities of life. 

I told her about how I felt when I was with her, how I felt when she was away, how it hurt to watch her walk away from me. I talked about how it felt to have her close, but not close enough. I talked about how terrified I was of these unknown feelings, and how adamant I was that they do not interfere in my friendship with Andrea. How crucial, how _vital_ it was that Andrea stayed in my life. That she never leave me again.

"Miranda," Dr. Riera leaned forward, and looked at me closely, as if seeing right through me. There was something in the seriousness of her expression that unsettled me, and I immediately felt my chest tighten in fear, because a small part of me already knew what she was going to say. "What you're describing sounds a lot like love."

The breath was knocked out of me in a rush.

Love.

 _Love_.

No. Surely not. Surely the universe would not be so cruel. Surely this woman was mistaken. It was impossible, _preposterous_ -

"No, it - it can't be _that_ kind of love, surely. There must be some other explanation, some other _reason_ \- "

"Have you ever been in love, Miranda?"

The question hung between us. The silence was like ice around me, crushing me, suffocating me.

"I - " My eyes were stinging with unshed tears, and I felt my body shake. Everything inside me felt dislocated, turned in on itself, disjointed. Everything was _wrong_. "Yes. That is- I think so, yes. I- I was _married,_ for God's sake. Surely I have not spent my entire life without loving someone, _loveless--_ "

"Of course not, Miranda." Her voice was even softer now, and I clung to the sofa cushion underneath me, trying to ground myself enough to actually listen to what she was saying. "There are many kinds of love. You probably loved your partners very much; I don't doubt it for a second. And of course you love your children. But _romantic_ love is something different, and when you feel it, you know. You know, without a doubt, that you are in love. There are different degrees of falling in love with someone, without a doubt. But it sounds to me like you're in love with Andrea, as much in love as anyone can get."

"Oh."

I could not say anything after that. I could hardly breathe. Everything she'd said made sense. I _did_ love Greg when I married him, just like I loved Michael before him. But what I'd felt for them, what I'd felt for _anyone_ \- it all paled in comparison to what I felt for Andrea. When I was with her, it was like I transcended everything. The rush of emotion every time she said my name or smiled at me or wrapped her arms around me -

" _Oh._ "

I sat frozen in time and space, feeling a flood of emotion unlike any other I'd ever felt. My body felt hot and cold at once, my chest laden with molten mercury. I stared vacantly into space, letting each wave flow through me until I felt numb with exhaustion.

After countless moments, I managed to focus my sight, and saw the sympathetic, understanding smile on Dr. Riera's face, so alike Andrea's. _Andrea._ I swallowed around tightness in my throat, trying to form words, trying to say something coherent, _anything_.

"It's alright, Miranda," Dr. Riera said. "I can see you need some time to process. How about we meet next week, and we can continue talking about this?"

I nodded dazedly, and almost felt lightheaded from the movement.

"Hey, it's going to be okay," Dr. Riera smiled, reaching forward to take my clammy hand in hers. "You can get through this. Love can be a beautiful thing, and I'm here to help you, okay? We'll work this out, Miranda, I promise."

I nodded again, taking a deep breath, willing myself to believe her words. It would be okay. It would all be okay.

I did not speak to Andrea for the rest of the day. She called me that evening, and I let it go to voicemail despite the turmoil I felt in doing so. I just needed time to _think_.

I shut myself away in the safety of my study, curled up on my favourite armchair with a glass of wine in one hand and absentmindedly petting Medusa's soft fur with the other. I don't know exactly how long I sat like that, unmoving. I spent hours thinking about the life-altering revelation that I was in love with Andrea. I went back over my entire life, analysing it with a finely combed brush, dissecting it for any sign, any _reason_ why this could be happening to me.

It was so demeaning that I had spent my entire life completely oblivious to what true love really felt like. It felt so wrong that a female ex-employee half my age would be the one to make me learn what it is to fall in love. I felt _cheated._ I felt like the universe was playing some sick joke on me, some tedious vengeance for everything wrong I'd ever done. My life didn't feel _mine_ anymore. It was like I was living as somebody else, like everything in my past had been a perfectly-disguised lie.

And yet, I couldn't help the thought that, if anyone on this planet could make me fall in love, _of course_ it would be Andrea.

I didn't talk to her the next day either. I was thankful that it was a Friday, and I went into the office earlier than usual despite having spent the entire night tossing and turning, tormented by my raging thoughts no matter how much I tried to silence them.

By the late afternoon, I had drowned myself in work so thoroughly that I had succeeded in keeping my mind too busy to spare a thought to Andrea and my life-long repressed sexuality. As a consequence, however, I had also completely forgotten about the mandatory Gala I had to attend that evening. My stomach turned at just the thought of spending even an hour at the tedious event, surrounded by people who either hated me or wanted something from me, or both. All I wanted was to go home and rest, and hopefully find a way to escape the nightmare that my life had become.

It only took me an hour to get ready, and by eight p.m. I was at the awful event. I was in such a foul mood that everyone kept away from me, and I was too exhausted to even act as if I wanted to be there for appearances' sake. Board of directors be damned. I spent the entire evening scowling, and drinking wine glass after wine glass until my thoughts were dimmed down to a blissfully low murmur. It was heavenly to not have to _feel_ so much for a while, after feeling _so goddamn much_ in the last day alone. It felt good to just be. And the fact that time moved quicker was a definite perk.

Soon enough, it was quarter to nine, and I decided to take my leave. The car journey to my home was quick and silent, the city lights a blur of colour before my glazed eyes. For the first time in many months, when I entered my house, the silence did not feel quite as foreboding as it usually did. Medusa sauntered towards me and rubbed herself against my shins.

I kicked off my shoes and flung my purse carelessly onto the table with the flowers, where Andrea once used to place the Book so meticulously.

_Andrea._

I still hadn't returned her call from the day before. I immediately felt swept with guilt. It wasn't Andrea's fault that I'd been foolish enough to fall for her. It wasn't her fault that she was so thoughtful and so kind and so ridiculously beautiful. She wasn't to blame for any of this, and I felt horrid for neglecting her. What if she'd needed me? What if she'd called me for something important and I hadn't picked up? How self-righteous - how _selfish_ could I be?

Without thought, I stumbled forward, tripping over my discarded heels and fumbling with my purse until I finally managed to retrieve my phone. I didn't stop to think about what I was doing, or the fact that it was nine thirty on a Friday evening and Andrea probably had plans with her boyfriend who she was _happily in love with_ -

I pressed call the second I saw her name. The monotonous sound as the phone kept ringing gave me enough time to take deep, calming breaths.

It wasn't Andrea's fault someone else had fallen in love with her too, and it wasn't her fault she loved him back.

"Hi, you've reached Andy Sachs. Sorry I couldn't get to you! Please leave a message - you know what to do."

I closed my eyes as I heard her voicemail, and had the fleeting impulse to hang up, but then the long, tell-tale _beep_ sounded, and I could not keep myself from saying what I needed to say.

"Andrea," I rasped, and swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry I missed your call yesterday. I hope it wasn't anything important, and that you're okay. That's all I want, you know? I just - I just want you to be okay. To be happy. I hope you know I would never do anything to hurt you. _Never_. I promise to always do my best to answer your calls. Be there for you whenever you may need me. That's all I wanted to say, really."

I closed my eyes, and pressed the phone tighter against my cheek before the words slipped past my lips like liquid.

"Goodnight, Andrea. I love you.”

_Don't you know too much already?_

_I'll only hurt you if you let me_

_Call me friend, but keep me closer_

_And I'll call you when the party's over_


	4. Unravel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elle, you already know I owe you my life. Thank you, always.

_January, 2014_

I hardly slept that night. I still remember how much time I spent, pacing from room to room, feeling at a loss as to what to do. I was so _angry_ at myself for my drunken stupidity. On top of everything else, I had to go and make things worse for myself by impulsively confessing my feelings for Andrea, spurred by alcohol and self-loathing. I was a nervous wreck from the moment I hung up the phone, and spent a ridiculous amount of time thinking about the chances of deleting voicemail from a phone that wasn't my own.

I was also grieving. I was convinced that Andrea would read between the lines, and understand what I'd been saying. As if my words hadn't been clear enough. _Honestly_. It was embarrassing how quickly my carefully constructed filter went up in flames regarding Andrea when I indulged in a little (read: _a lot_ ) of wine. It was shameful, and immature, and I spent endless hours wishing I could swallow my words.

I could _not_ lose Andrea over this. I could not lose our friendship. It was the only thing that had kept me feeling sane for the past year, and she was the only person who I could trust. The only one I felt comfortable with, and laughed with, and shared pieces of myself with. It was terrifying to think what my life would be like without her in it. Without the evenings full of delicious food and lively banter and smart conversation. Without the mutual support, the comfort that we gave one another. Without her smiles. Without her eyes. Without _her_.

It was only with the glimmer of dawn that my body succumbed to its exhaustion. After two nights of restless sleep, and so much emotional turmoil and life-changing revelations drained me so completely that I fell asleep in my underwear and with my _makeup_ on, for Christ's sake.

I slept for nearly ten hours straight and woke with a pounding headache and a storm raging in my stomach. I'm embarrassed to say that the only reason I actually woke up in the first place was because Medusa took to stepping and clawing and meowing at me until I managed to drag myself out of bed long enough to feed her. It was on my way back up the stairs, with the sole intention of crawling back into bed for at least three hours, that I remembered what I had done the night before.

I rushed to the bathroom just in time to be sick into the toilet bowl.

When I finally worked up the courage to finally check my phone, I had a missed call from her, and a voice mail. With my heart in my throat, I pressed play.

"Hey, Miranda! By the sounds of it, you had fun last night, huh? Don't worry about missing my call, I was only calling to chat so it was no big deal. Listen, I know what you're like the morning after drinking, and I don't have any plans until the evening, so how about I come over for a little while, hm? I'll bring some croissants, and I can make you that veggie omelette you like so much. Oh! And Starbucks. _Hot_ Starbucks. What do ya say? Text me whenever you hear this, and I'll be right over if you want. Bye!"

I was in disbelief. She'd sounded so... _normal._ So like her usual self, not like someone who had just found out their friend is in love with them. There were no traces of disgust, or revulsions. Not even a hint of pity.

Well.

I made myself presentable, felt much more human after a shower, and texted her to come over.

She did as she'd promised - bought croissants and coffee and made me an omelette, and as we both sat to eat lunch in my kitchen, I decided to apologise.

"I'm sorry about last night, I--"

"Oh, don't be sorry! It was quite sweet, actually," She grinned, and I couldn't recall someone had called me _sweet._ "It's what close friends do, anyways. They get drunk and call each other and get all sentimental."

"They do?" I frowned, because this was news to me.

"Yeah," she said matter-of-factly, and then took a closer look at my face. "You're telling me no one ever drunk called you to remind you how much they love you and that they'd do anything for you and all that?"

I numbly shook my head. I suppose it figured that I was only beginning to experience true friendship at the age of fifty-four with a woman half my age. She chuckled at my dumbfounded expression, and patted my hand.

"Well, it happens a lot. Don't worry about it. I'm sure if I was able to get drunk, I'd be drunk calling you on the regular."

I was ridiculously flattered by this statement, and felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

Things carried on as normal after that. Well, as normal as they could, considering I had (finally) realised that my feelings for Andrea were anything but platonic in nature. I continued seeing Dr. Riera for one hour and a half once a week, and she helped me come to terms with my feelings. We analysed my life together, and why I had been in relationships with men despite never being _in love_ with them.

She helped me understand my feelings, and offered me some coping strategies to process and deal with the pain of being in love with someone who didn't love me back. Which I desperately needed, because above all else, I needed my friendship with Andrea to continue as it was. I could not lose her. I could not distance myself from her, no matter how tempting it was to do so, to relieve a little of the heartache that came with having her close but not close enough. It took several therapy sessions to set me on the right path, but once I finally found a way to deal with my feelings in a way that eased some of the pain I felt, and things got a little easier.

It still hurt. _A lot_. More than I could have ever imagined. I'd never in my life thought that love could bring such blinding pain. But Dr. Riera helped me stay grounded enough that I could continue with my life without losing Andrea. Without losing myself. It gave me hope that maybe I had a good future ahead of me. A chance to be - maybe not _happy_ , but at least content.

Andrea and I tried to see each other once every week or so, and spoke almost every day. She made efforts to call or visit on the weekends, because she could tell that was the time where I usually felt the absence of my daughters the most, since I couldn't keep busy at _Runway._ And I still followed every single article she published, and never failed to call her after the publication of a particularly rough piece to check in on her.

One time, I called her the moment I finished reading a piece she'd written on a rape case where the rapist had walked free. I did my best to verbally crucify the man in the most ridiculous manner, being over-the-top in my speech and ripping into the legal system. I threatened to have every member of the jury, including the judge himself, skinned and made into coats and handbags in the style of Cruella deVil until I managed to make her laugh.

"Oh, Miranda," she'd said between fits of laughter. "No one cheers me up quite like you do, you really are the best at it."

I spent the rest of that day walking on air, and felt a ridiculous amount of pride swell in my chest whenever I thought about her words. They may have been hyperbolic, but it didn't make me feel any less buoyant. I didn't even stop to think about _why_ she'd said it, why _I_ would be the best at "cheering her up" when surely her boyfriend had first place in that. In that, and everything else.

I didn't really notice that _Paul_ had been coming up in conversation less and less. I merely assumed that things had gotten to that stage of the relationship where nothing really happened, where it was just a comfortable routine with hardly anything out of the ordinary. I really wish I'd paid more careful attention, because I could have used the warning before everything escalated on one particular night.

_October, 2013_

When I received her text at 6 p.m. on a Saturday, I wasn't sure what to make of it. I stared at my phone for countless moments, trying to keep myself from the consuming worry. It would not help in the least, anyways. All it would do was give me a headache, and I needed a clear mind for whatever it was that had made Andrea text me in such a way.

_"Can I come over?"_

Andrea and I texted quite a fair bit, so the lack of emojis, or smiley faces was concerning to say the least. I of course answered that yes, she could, and if she was alright. She ignored my question, and simply replied that she would be here within the hour.

I would never admit that I spent thirty-five minutes pacing in the sitting room adjourned to the foyer, all the while Medusa watched with curious eyes from her comfortable place on the sofa. It was impossible to feel anything but anguish as I awaited her arrival. When I finally heard the doorbell ring, I rushed to open the front door, not even bothering to compose myself or hide the fact that I'd ran to answer.

Andrea's expression was full of sorrow, her eyes red from crying, her cheeks painted with traces of tears like dried-up rivers. My heart clenched at the terrible sight, the sharp ache in my chest digging deeper into me as I whispered her name.

" _Andrea_."

Her beautiful features contorted in pain, and she sprung forward into my arms, nearly knocking me over. I wrapped my arms around her, steadying us, holding her tightly against me as she sobbed into my neck. It was the most miserable sound, and I felt my own agony rush stinging tears to my eyes as I helplessly rocked her gently in my arms.

"Shh, it's okay," I murmured soothingly, running my fingers gently through her hair, cradling her face protectively against my neck in the most comforting way I knew how. "You're safe now, you're alright."

Sobs shook her body, trembling against me, and I held her even tighter, trying to ignore the feeling of my heart ripping apart from the seams.

It took long moments before the sobs turned into small hiccups and quiet sniffs, and she leant against me heavily as her body gave in to its exhaustion. I continued to caress her hair and murmur words of comfort until she pulled away, her eyes downcast.

"S-Sorry," she hiccupped, and brushed her nose with the back of her hands.

"Don't be, please," I said, cupping her jaw with both my hands, lifting her gaze to mine. It was agony to see the pain in her eyes. I ran my thumbs over her cheeks, tenderly wiping away her tears.

"But I messed up your shirt - and - and--"

"Shh," I offered her a warm, affectionate smile. The sort of kind smile that only she and my daughters receive. "It doesn't matter. You know I have thousands of shirts."

She laughed weakly, but it sounded strained, and I bit my lip before reaching for her hand.

"Come," I said softly. "Let me make you some tea, and we can sit in the den. Does that sound good?"

Her eyes teared up again, but the corners of her lips lifted into the smallest of smiles, and she nodded before letting me lead her to the kitchen. She sat on the counter while I set about brewing a pot of camomile and honey tea. Her eyes were lost in space, her mind no doubt deep in thought, so I let her to her ruminations until I had a tray with a full teapot and two mugs.

"Shall we?" I asked, and she silently nodded again before following me up the stairs and into the den.

This was the same room where we drank our wine that first night we met again after six years. Several months ago, Andrea told me it was her favourite place in the house. I wasn't surprised at all by that, since it was also my most favoured space to unwind, and I had become accustomed to realising that we had more and more things in common as time went by. The warm colours, the fireplace, the plants, and the large windows overlooking the back garden made it my personal sanctuary. Especially when she was here with me.

She curled up in her usual place at the end of the sofa, and I poured us some tea before taking my place next to her. We sipped the warm, sweet brew quietly, and Medusa sauntered into the room and curled up on the sofa between us. I remained silent while Andrea threaded her fingers through Medusa's white fur, the cat's pleased purring the only sound filling the room. I didn't want to pry, or push Andrea into talking if she wasn't ready, so I didn't say anything, despite the anxious worry that was eating me up inside. After endless moments, Andrea took a shuddering breath.

"Paul broke up with me."

I reeled back, stunned. I had not seen this coming in the slightest. Andrea had not mentioned any issues in their relationship, and part of me was shocked that someone in the right mind would break up with the most wonderful, talented, selfless, caring, funny, _beautiful_ -

"He said it wasn't working between us, that he didn't love me anymore. That my career and my depression were too much to handle. As if _he_ was the one suffering through it."

There were tears in her eyes again, but all I could see was blinding rage. Who the _fuck_ did this pitiful imbecile think he was, breaking her heart like this?! How couldhe hurt Andrea? _M_ _y Andrea!_ There was something seething in me, something dark and violent that burned its way through me like molten lava, swelling up in a thunderous fury that threatened to tear my inhibitions.

" _I will destroy him_ ," I hissed, and I barely recognised my voice.

Andrea drew back, eyes widening in shock. "W-What?"

"How _dare_ he say such things to you? How dare he hurt you this way, the selfish, _ungrateful_ \--"

"Miranda--"

"Son of a _bitch_ \--"

" _Miranda!_ "

I blinked, and was suddenly thrust back into myself, into the situation and the reality of the moment. Andrea was leaning away from me, her eyes wide with something awfully like fear. I was suddenly reminded of that night so many years ago when she'd walked in on me arguing with Stephen. The look in her eyes now was so similar to the one back then, shock and apprehension, that I felt my stomach churn unpleasantly.

Shaking myself, I moved closer to her, taking her hand in mine, urgently hoping that my outburst could be amended.

"Oh, Andrea, I'm sorry," I said, making my voice as soft as possible, as if trying to make up for the cutting sharpness in it just a moment ago. "I'm so sorry. I just - I hate seeing you like this. I can't believe he did this. I hope you realise that you don't deserve any of this. You deserve so much more, so much happiness, and I--" I choked on my words, fighting them down with everything I had so that I would not expose myself too much. This was about Andrea, and what _she_ was feeling right now. I needed to push my own feelings aside, bury them somewhere deep down where I'd hidden everything else about me that Andrea could never know. "I'm so sorry."

Her eyes softened, and she didn't look fearful anymore. In fact, she was nearly smiling. When she squeezed my hand gently, I was finally able to draw breath.

"It's okay," she said. "I've just never really seen you like that before. Hell, I think that's the first time I've ever heard you _curse_."

I lowered my eyes, a forceful guilt settling over me at my shameful loss of control.

"But - hey, look at me." She leaned forward and caught my eye, and there was a lightness, an amusement in her expression that made the guilt slowly fade away. "It's kinda really sweet that you got so angry in my defence. That's what a good friend does."

Well. I released a breath of relief, and allowed myself to relax.

"You know, you really shouldn't keep saying I'm sweet. I do have a reputation to uphold."

She snorted in amusement, her lips stretching out into a real smile for the first time since she showed up at my door.

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me," she retorted, and crossed her heart.

I smirked, and squeezed her hand in the same way she'd done to me earlier.

"I know," I said light-heartedly, but my expression was serious as I continued, "You have my full trust."

It was true. I, who never trusted another living being regarding anything, especially the vulnerable and insecure pieces of myself, I trusted Andrea completely. It had taken some time, yes, but I knew deep down that I would trust this woman with my life.

She looked at me thoughtfully after my admission, and did not look in the least surprised by my words. Considering how much I'd shared with her, how much she knew about me, she must have known for a long time now.

"I know," she said with a smile. "You have my full trust, too."

I had to close my eyes, just for a second, because even though I'd known that Andrea trusted me, had faith in me, to hear the words reciprocating how I felt was... There were no words for it. I felt like I'd been given a gift, a precious token that I would cherish and protect with all that I had. 

We continued to sip our tea in silence, but I couldn't help glancing at her from the corner of my eye. She was once again lost in deep thought, her eyes looking into space as she sipped the warm tea mechanically. When she released a quiet but shaky sigh, I couldn't hold my silence any longer.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She blinked, seeming to jolt back into herself, and looked at me with a hint of relief in her eyes.

For the next two hours, we talked (well, she talked, I mostly listened and fumed internally) about her relationship - _former_ relationship. She told me about all the missed dinners, and the passive aggressive arguments, and the lack of communication that had plagued her relationship for the past few months. She spoke of the increasing amount of time he spent "going out with friends" instead of with her. How she'd felt as though he didn't listen to her anymore, or take care of her during the bad days.

I tried my best to be the type of supportive, sympathetic friend she needed me to be, but since I'd never been in that sort of relationship before - not one where I was _in love_ with my partner, anyways - I trusted my instinct and simply listened and offered comfort in any way I could.

By nine thirty, she was yawning, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. I knew the emotional toll of the day had drained her, and I didn't want her to go home by herself. I didn't want her to be alone.

"Stay the night," I offered.

She looked at me with her almond eyes filled with sleepiness and sadness, but managed a small smile that made my heart leap into my throat.

"Okay," she murmured.

She refused my offer to eat dinner, claiming she was too tired to eat, that she didn't have an appetite, so I showed her to the guest room across the hall from my bedroom and gave her some silk pyjamas that I hadn't worn in a few years. I made to leave her in peace when she reached out to hold my hand.

"Will you tuck me in?"

Her voice was so small, so shy in her request, and her _eyes_ . I could hardly draw breath, so I simply nodded and watched her go into the ensuite bathroom. It felt strange to wait for her, sitting on the bed and staring at the closed bathroom door, my heart pounding in my chest. I tried to calm down, tried to take deep breaths, even tried distracting myself by turning on the lamp beside the bed. But something about knowing she was just a door away, changing into my pyjamas, about to sleep in one of my beds after I _tucked her in_ -

The door opened, and any breath I'd managed to take left me in a rush.

Andrea stood in the doorway, the bathroom light encasing her figure, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulder. She looked so beautiful, so _right_ here, in my home, late at night, ready for bed. I swallowed thickly, and averted my eyes as she crawled into bed and slid under the covers. She snuggled against the pillow and sighed. I moved to sit beside her, tucking the covers around her the way I'd done with my daughters a million times before.

"Thank you," she murmured sleepily, her dazed eyes looking up at me full of warmth.

"You're very welcome," I replied quietly, giving her a wavering smile.

"No, I mean for today. You were amazing. I love you."

I sucked in a breath, my eyes widening as I stared down at her. Hearing her say those words elicited something sharp and painful to slice through my chest, and I nearly gasped at the excruciating sensation. A terrible weight seized me, crawling down my throat and settling deep in my stomach as I tried to fight the sudden urge to cry. I'd always thought that if I ever heard those words from her lips, they would bring me joy so unimaginable, an elation so exhilarating that I would be blinded by my own blissful happiness. But this was so far away from that. Hearing her say the words, but not in the way I felt for her... It was miserable, and heart breaking, and _pathetic_.

"What is it?" She asked, frowning. Something in my expression must have given me away, and I was suddenly seized with terror.

"I just--" I rasped, swallowed thickly, and tried to sound as if I wasn't being torn apart inside. "You've never said that to me before."

Her eyes widened, and she looked much more awake now.

"Have I really not told you before?" She asked, her voice urgent and apologetic.

I shook my head, not trusting myself enough to speak in any way that would keep my true feelings hidden from those all-knowing eyes.

"Oh, _God_. Miranda, I'm so sorry," she exclaimed, her face mournful and upset. She clutched my hand, and looked up at me earnestly. "I can't believe I've never told you. _Of course_ I love you. You're my closest friend."

The storm of feelings returned, and I had the urge to clutch my chest, my stomach. Or break something or scream or _cry_ -

"I am?" I managed to whisper, and hoped she couldn't hear how much my voice trembled.

She smiled up at me with that warmth and that honesty were so very much _Andrea_ , and I bit my lip until it stung just to distract me from how much I ached for her.

"Yeah," she said. "You're really important to me, M."

"Oh," I breathed. I took a deep breath to fight back the stinging sensation of tears threatening to make an appearance, and squared my shoulders, trying to compose myself enough to leave this room and escape into the privacy of my bedroom, where I could drown in these feelings of hopeless grief. "Well. Your sentiments are returned."

Andrea grinned in amusement, and raised a sardonic eyebrow in an uncanny replica of my signature gesture.

"Goodnight, Andrea. Sleep well, and feel free to have a lie in tomorrow, I'll be home all day."

"Okay," she sighed, and buried herself deeper into the comfort of the mattress. "G'night, Miranda."

As if on auto-pilot, I turned off the bedside lamp and made my way out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind me before striding to my own bedroom. The more distance I put between us, the more I was overwhelmed by the agony tearing my chest apart. The moment I shut the door, I broke down, and the tears finally began to fall.

I spent the night trying to drown out my thoughts, to keep the misery at bay. It took me what felt like an eternity to run out of tears, and the dark hours before dawn stretched out before me in an oppressive silence that bore down upon me like the weight of the world was crushing me without mercy. I clutched Medusa against my chest, burying my face against her back and wetting her fur with my tears. She stayed there with me, my only companion, while I tried to piece myself back together. It was like trying to put together a daunting statue from shards of glass, and I kept finding bleeding wounds with every attempt I made to heal.

I finally fell into a restless sleep somewhere around four a.m., and my dreams were filled with stormy seas and deathly icicles and raging flames, and there was nobody to save me as I sank to the bottom of the ocean, water filling my lungs as I drowned in the dark depths of nothingness.

The next day, Andrea came into the kitchen around noon. I felt exhausted and utterly drained, and for the first time since I'd known her, I wished Andrea were not here. I needed time to recover still, and I could not do that with her here. I was debating with myself about how to approach this issue, when she announced that she only had time for a coffee before she had to meet her friend Rachel for lunch.

"Oh," I said, trying not to sound relieved. "Alright."

After she'd poured herself a mug of coffee, she sat across from me at the kitchen island, and after taking her first sip looked at me for a moment. Then frowned.

"Are you okay?"

I immediately tensed, and gripped my own mug of coffee.

"Yes, why do you ask?" I said as nonchalantly as I could possibly manage.

"I don't know, you look... tired. Or something."

"Medusa woke me up at an ungodly hour this morning," I said by way of explanation, but she looked sceptical as I sipped my coffee, hiding as best as I could behind my mug. "Anyways," I said, hoping to distract her with a change of subject. "I'm supposed to ask _you_ how you're feeling. Are you okay?"

She shrugged lightly, and lowered her eyes. "As well as I can be, considering. Better than yesterday, though. I think my small catharsis helped."

I nodded, looking at the white marble between us. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

She smiled at me, and I distracted myself by taking a gulp of the hot coffee, feeling some comfort in the burning sensation as it slid down my throat.

"Thanks. I mean, it was kinda thanks to you."

I raised my eyebrow. "I really didn't do much, Andrea."

"As if." She rolled her eyes, and looked at me with a teasing grin. "You did a lot. More than you probably know."

I gave a small smile in return, not knowing how to reply to that. So we simply finished our coffee in comfortable silence.

"Well," she said, taking her empty mug and putting it in the dishwasher. "I gotta run. I left the pyjamas on the bed, by the way. Thank you so much, again. For everything."

She came around the kitchen island, and gave me a tight hug. I closed my eyes at the sensation, and tried not to inhale through my nose. The last thing I needed in my state was to inhale any of her sweet scent that felt so much like home.

"You're the best," she murmured close to my ear before stepping back. "Bye!"

I watched her walk out of the room towards the foyer, following the sounds of her footsteps until the front door shut, and a silent stillness settled over the house in that awful way it always did after Andrea left.

Her absence left an open wound that carved my chest bare. I closed my eyes against another onslaught of tears. What had I done in my life to deserve this kind of torment? How did I get myself into this situation, where every moment with Andrea hurt, but her absence was pure agony? Why did she have to be so close, but not close enough? It felt like I was reaching for something so far away from me, it was impossible to reach. But if I let go, the fall would kill me, and I was left to hang on by my fingernails, even when my body was so weak and tired.

I have never experienced this sort of heartbreak. Such a slow pain as my heart turned to lead and sunk further and further. In that moment, I wished I'd never met Andrea. I wished I hadn't hired her that day over seven years ago. I wished she was just a faceless stranger, a fleeting interaction long forgotten, nobody of any importance to me. Maybe that way I could feel like myself again. Like there wasn't an almost constant emptiness inside me that ached for someone I could never have. Like I wasn't being ripped apart at the seams thread by painful thread.

I leant against the kitchen island, burying my face in my hands, and felt myself unravel. 

_But nothing is better sometimes_

_Once we've both said our goodbyes_

_Let's just let it go_

_Let me let you go_


	5. Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elle, you queen, thank you for always saving me from myself.
> 
> And to those of you who have stuck with this fic so far, thank you. My special gratitude to those of you who have taken the time to leave a comment.  
> This story has meant a lot to me personally, and I hope that you enjoy this final chapter. Please let me know what you think.
> 
> Much love to everyone. Stay safe and be kind x

_January, 2014_

After that fateful, painful night in October, I tried to pretend everything was fine. But things had shifted inside me, and I couldn’t ignore it, now matter how much I tried. It was different to be confronted with the reality that single Andrea is just as unavailable as Andrea in a relationship. For a long time, I had been able to hide behind the pretence that a relationship with her was impossible because she was in a relationship with someone else. But knowing she was unattached, and would still remain out of reach, severed the last string of hope I was clinging to.

I could no longer lie to myself, thinking that I was perfectly okay with my feelings for Andrea, that I could handle having such a close friendship with someone who could never love me the way I desperately wanted to be loved. I could not keep doing that to myself. The never-ending rollercoaster of emotions that came from Andrea’s friendship. From elation to heart-break, switching between the two like a pendulum dragging me from one extreme to the next. It was exhausting. I couldn’t live like that. My work began to suffer, and even my daughters - thousands of miles away - realised there was something wrong.

I decided to stop going to therapy, hiding behind excuses of busy schedules and frantic work building up before the Christmas holidays. Saving my friendship with Andrea was the reason I started going in the first place, and now there wasn’t going to be a friendship at all, so why continue? I convinced myself this was the right thing to do, the right course of action. I needed to move on from Andrea, but I couldn’t do that with her in my life.

I needed to let her go.

It was a painful thought, even more painful to know it deep in my bones that this was the only way for me to save any semblance of sanity I had left. I felt consumed by my grief, mourning someone who I could not imagine living without. The years stretched out ahead of me as I tried to envision what my life would be like, and the emptiness and loss that gripped me was strong enough to make me question whether I had made the right decision.

But then I remembered how whatever joy I felt was overshadowed by my perpetual pain. I remembered what it felt like each time Andrea hugged me, how my heart soared each time I made her laugh, how it ached when she’d said the words _“I love you”,_ and I knew that I had to stop this.

Thus began the most harrowing time of my life. I began to put distance between myself and Andrea, claiming that my work was taking up more and more time due to the holidays coming up. I stopped seeing her every week, and our phone calls reduced significantly. I still kept in touch, because the last thing I wanted was to hurt her, or feel as though I had anything against her. So I forced myself to see her as much as I could, but even I could tell that my act wasn’t as flawless as it usually always is. After all, I was in mourning of her, even though she did not know it. 

She was quite obviously perplexed by my strange behaviour, so quiet and dimmed and sombre. Even though she continued to have her sunny disposition and easy smiles - despite her recent breakup - I often caught her eyeing me with palpable concern. When she tried to bring up my strange behaviour in conversation, I dismissed her worries with perfectly crafted nonchalance, claiming that work was busier than it had been in a long time and that I was just wrung out. But she continued to give me those looks, which I continued to ignore.

As soon as the girls came home for the winter holidays, I swept them away to the Hamptons, desperate to escape the city and the memories of Andrea scattered everywhere in my house. I did something that was incredibly out of character for me, and I took two whole weeks off work. I left firm instructions at _Runway_ that nobody should contact me unless the magazine was burning down. The instructions had been met with bafflement, but I simply did not _care_ anymore. 

For twelve days, it was just me and my girls. My darlings. As much as I loved having them around, as much as I revelled in the distraction they offered, as much as their presence was a soothing balm over my open wounds, it was impossible for me to entirely forget my heartache. My terrible loss.

Sleep had been unfulfilling for months, and now that it was only me and my girls, I decided to not wear makeup while on vacation. I should have known it was not the best idea, because between the insomnia and the tears that occasionally still fell against my will, my daughters became increasingly worried. On the third day, Cassidy and Caroline sat on each side of me on the spacious living room couch, and took my hands. My stomach sank with trepidation.

“Mom,” Cassidy had started, her tone serious. “What’s happened? You haven’t been yourself for a while now, and you seem, well…”

“Sad,” Caroline continued for her. “We’ve never seen you like this, Ma. What’s been going on?”

I closed my eyes, not willing to let them see my pain. I had been feeling slightly better in the last few days, but the girls asking me outright in such a way made my chin tremble in the way it sometimes did when I cried. I bit my lip furiously in a useless attempt to stop it.

“Oh, _mom_.”

Two pairs of arms enveloped me, offering me the necessary comfort that I had been deprived from for too long. Overwhelmed, the defensive walls I had been steadily erecting around me collapsed. Unwillingly, I was forced to remember moments that define my love for Andrea.

Andrea in my nightgown, eyes half-lidded with sleep. Andrea in my arms, tears slipping down my neck. Andrea in my life, shedding light upon the darkest of corners with her brilliant smile.

Weakened by the confrontation of my unrequited love, I succumbed to the emotions I had repressed for so long. Sobs shook my body as my girls held me even tighter, whispering words I could not understand. Wanting to be released from my shame, from my misery, I begged any higher deities to make it stop. I wanted my old life back. I wanted to forget I ever felt this way. I craved privacy, to hide my grief away for my own self-preservation. No child should see their mother like _this_.

After long, unbearable moments, I finally managed to draw a full breath. And then another. Again and again, until I had the strength to pull away from my children’s embrace. It was too much. Their comfort was too much - a harsh, grating contrast to the nothingness I had endured in recent months. My breath shuddered in my throat every time I inhaled in that infuriating way it always does after crying so much. In my humiliation I refused to open my eyes, even as Caroline handed me a tissue.

After dabbing my eyes and delicately blowing my nose, I let out a breath and opened my eyes. Twin faces of confusion stared at me. I could sense, the way a mother can, that they were averse to knowing what could have inspired such a raw display of emotion from me. Their eyes grew fearful of what the answer may be. Cassidy was biting her lip, and Caroline’s eyes were a little too wide despite her attempts at controlling her expression. I swallowed thickly, and braced myself for the conversation ahead.

“It’s nothing--”

 _“Nothing?”_ Caroline said in disbelief.

“ _Please,_ Caroline. Just- It’s complicated.” I reached up to rub my forehead. A headache had been simmering at my temples for the past week, and it had grown into a vicious stabbing against my skull.

“So, explain it to us,” Cassidy reasoned, placing her hand on my knee. “Please, mom. We’re really worried about you, and it’s obviously _not_ nothing.”

Looking at both of them, I could see they were deeply unsettled. Their anxious eyes, so like mine, implored me for answers. I wanted them to trust me with things like these - with _everything_ \- and I knew that would not happen if they felt like I didn’t trust them in return. I knew I had to tell them something, and I refused to lie. Not to them. Taking a deep breath, I tried to gather as much courage as I possessed. I had only ever told Dr Riera, but telling my daughters felt far more personal; closer to home.

“I’ve fallen in love.” I looked down at the hands clutched in my lap, fingers clenched so tightly that my knuckles were white with the pressure. “I’m in love with someone. With a- a friend. A very close friend.”

There was a loaded silence after my admission, and I was tempted to look at them to witness their reactions, but I could hardly handle even saying the words aloud without breaking into tears again. 

“And, um,” Cassidy tentatively spoke. “Is that a bad thing?”

My lips twitched into a sad smile. 

“It is when she doesn’t love me back.”

The long silence was unbearable this time, and I forced myself to look up at their reactions. Cassidy bore a shocked expression, while Caroline seemed surprised. Both possessed an uncertainty at how to react to my admission.

“You’re in love with a woman?” Cassidy asked, and Caroline reached over to swat her bicep.

“Keep up, dumbass,” Caroline admonished, and I couldn’t bring herself to chastise her for her use of language.

“Sorry,” Cassidy retorted. “I’m just- I was surprised, that’s all.”

My microscopic smile grew in its authenticity. 

“It was a shock for me too, believe me,” I admitted. “I wasn’t ready for it at all. I had been friends with her for two years before my therapist burst my bubble and made me realise exactly what it was I was feeling for her.”

Caroline frowned then, and looked so thoughtful that it unnerved me. 

“Wait a minute,” she said with dawning realisation. “Hold on a second. Are you talking about who I think you’re talking about?”

Before I could answer, Caroline’s eyebrows shot up.

“Holy shit, mom. Are you in love with _Andy_?”

I reeled back, so stricken that I barely heard Cassidy’s murmured “Oh my God”.

“What--” I ran a trembling hand through my hair. “What makes you say that?”

“Ma, you talk about her, like, all the time,” Cassidy answered, and I swirled around to stare at her, astounded. 

“I do?”

“Yeah, for the past few years you’ve brought her up a lot in conversation. We figured it was just because she’s basically your only real friend, but now we know better.” Caroline offered her a smile, and grabbed my hand in a comforting gesture. Looking deeply into my eyes, she continued in a sullen tone. “I’m really sorry that you’re going through this, by the way. It can’t be easy.”

I let out a shuddering breath, and without really thinking, blurted, “It wouldn’t be so difficult if it wasn’t my first time really falling in love.”

Twin gasps met my admission, and I suddenly realised with mounting horror what I’d just said.

“You weren’t in love with dad?” Cassidy whispered, and I turned to her in dismay so quickly I nearly gave myself whiplash.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” I rushed to explain. “That is, I loved your father very much. I wouldn’t have married him otherwise.”

“But you didn’t love _Stephen_ ,” Caroline spat his name. “And you still married _him_.”

“I know, I know,” I amended, not even bothering to question how they knew I never loved my second husband. “But I did love your father. We were friends long before we married, and I did truly care for him…”

“But you weren’t _in love_ with him,” Cassidy finished with understanding.

“I thought I was. I really believed I was, but with Andrea…” I rubbed my eyes, stinging after all the tears I’d shed, swollen with exhaustion. “I’ve never felt this way for someone before. Every other partner I’ve had- they simply can’t compare to what I feel for her. She has changed the entirety of my understanding of love. My whole life shifted because of her, and now I don’t know how to go back.”

I felt my body slump against the backrest of the couch, and I closed my eyes as I tilted my head against the cushion. Despite the anguish still embedded in my chest, I felt several pounds lighter after opening up to my girls. What had Andrea called it? A _small catharsis?_ Indeed. I felt exhausted, like all my energy had bled from me in one outpour.

“So,” Cassidy began tentatively. “What are you going to do?”

I heaved a sigh that sapped all my motivation with it. “I tried to remain friends with her because I couldn’t imagine being without her. But it started getting more and more difficult - more _painful_ \- to have her in my life.” I shrugged hopelessly. “I didn’t want to be selfish, but I had to move on from these feelings. I did the only thing I could, and decided to let her go.”

“You _let her go?”_ Caroline parroted, a frown of confusion on her face.

“I had to... I could never be happy just as her friend. So, I’ve been distancing myself from her since November.” I swallowed past the sudden tightening of my throat. “And hopefully things will get better when she loses interest in continuing our friendship.” I felt particularly proud of myself for not choking over the words, but nothing stopped the icicles that settled in my chest at the thought. “You both know how much I live on hope.”

I fluttered my eyes shut again, but not before I caught a strange look shared between the girls. They so often communicated in this way that I paid it no mind. I simply held onto their hands, and let myself draw strength from that connection, even as my world felt like it was crumbling around me.

The rest of the week spent in the Hamptons was better than how it started; I felt closer to my girls than I ever had before. I felt no need to pretend anymore. Even though they did not bring up the topic of Andrea again, they went out of their way to offer me silent comfort. They gave me more hugs than they ever had before and distracted me with games and stories from their college lives. I had missed them terribly, and promised myself to devote all my attention to them while I had them with me. Only in the quiet of my bedroom late at night did Andrea haunt my thoughts, but Morpheus had finally given me mercy, and sleep did not elude me as much as it used to. It was some progress, at least.

When we returned to New York two days before New Year’s Eve, I continued to ignore everything that did not concern my daughters. I spent every day with them, going to Central Park and museums and galleries. It was the most wonderful two weeks I’d had in recent memory, and I refused to go to any work event unless my girls had plans with friends and were otherwise occupied. We spent New Year’s eve together, wearing comfortable loungewear, making home-made pizza, and playing Uno, and the next day we tried playing badminton in our garden before having a “spa day” filled with home-made face masks, manicures and pedicures.

Time slipped away from me.

On the day of the girls’ departure, I valiantly fought off my tears, even as I clung to them, hugging them goodbye. They would return for Spring break, and they promised me to call more, but I already missed them, even before driving them to the airport, where I clung to them once more.

It was quiet after that. More than ever before.

  
  


.oOo.

  
  


The two weeks after my daughters left, I was desolate. They kept their promises of calling me almost daily, but the in between moments were sorrowful. I hadn’t seen Andrea for nearly a month, and had only spoken to her sporadically, barely enough to hold a proper conversation the way we used to. I felt hollow. I would find myself touching my chest, expecting my skin to cave in upon itself and leave a crater in its place.

After I returned to _Runway_ from my vacation, I was crippled under the sheer amount of work that had accumulated in my absence. It helped me focus on something outside of my own head during the long hours of the days. I pushed myself harder than I ever did before to strive for perfection and hardly allowed myself any breaks; time spent away from work meant time to dwell on Andrea and my loneliness. My bleak, dreadful future stretched on ahead of me.

I heard the whispers, of course. People were wondering what was different about me. Even Nigel had noticed my sombre demeanour, the defeated aura cloaked around my shoulders that I could never quite manage to shrug off, the dark circles under my eyes that were becoming more difficult to hide under layers and layers of foundation. 

Nigel expressed his concern, because he is a good friend, far better than I deserve. That worried look in his eye remained even after I assured him that everything was perfectly fine, so I suppose I am not as opaque as I believe myself to be. Clearly, my defences are not what they used to be. I suppose that is what pain does to someone - reduces them until they are a mere phantom of the person they used to be.

My only comfort, apart from hearing my daughters’ voices and seeing their smiling faces on my laptop screen, was the constant reminder that I would move on and be alright in the end, surely. Only Medusa kept me company in the late hours each night, her elegant body stretching out next to me, seeking to offer me affection as if she could understand my starvation for it.

This is where I find myself now, spending my Saturday evening curled up on the sofa of my study with Medusa on my lap as I caress her fur and lose myself in memories. This past week has been especially difficult. Not for any particular reason, except for the fact that I feel like I’m drowning. I am in a melancholy mood - more so than usual - and in my loneliness, I have resorted to escape into my remembrance of Andrea.

I am dragged out of my solitude by an incessant ringing downstairs. I am ready to ignore it, except whoever the unwanted visitor is does not relent. I huff a breath of annoyance. Medusa leaps off my lap and I grunt as I force myself to leave the comfortable cocoon of blankets I had made for myself. I straighten my shoulders, and make my way to the foyer, ready to confront whoever is at my door at this ungodly hour. 

I open the door to find Andrea on the other side. 

I take a step back, shocked speechless at the sight of her. My heart immediately leaps into my throat, pulse racing in my ears as my scattered brain fights to understand. I had assumed she’d lost interest in continuing our friendship, since I haven’t heard a word from her in more than two weeks. _Why is she here?_ This is the last thing I need right now. I’m already dangling on the precipice of despair as it is.

“Miranda,” she says, and my heart thuds so painfully that my hand instinctively rises to press against my chest. Her eyes follow the movement, expression inscrutable and dark with something I can not decipher.

I can’t trust myself to speak. My voice is lost, unable to move past the tightness in my throat. The silence hangs between us as I try to draw breath. 

“Can I come in?” 

She looks expectantly past my shoulder into my house, and I know I should turn her away. I should come up with some excuse, some reason to lock myself away from her, somewhere my love for her could not hurt me anymore. But, _God_ , she is such a sight for sore eyes. I drink her in like a half-dead woman in a burning desert, her image soothing my parched soul.

My body seems to ignore all logic, because I find myself opening the door wider in a silent invitation. She breezes in, brushing past me, and her perfume nearly makes me swoon. I need to pull myself together.

This is a bad idea. This is not how things were supposed to go. But it feels like my body is not my own anymore. 

I don’t dare to look at her as I turn and make my way up the stairs and into the den. My favourite room in the house - and Andrea’s. I have not spent much time in it recently. Memories of her haunt the once peaceful space. Every time I enter the room, it feels like something crucial is missing. It made the agony much, much worse, so I have avoided it at all costs.

Stepping inside with Andrea and looking around, nothing seems out of place. I don’t know what I expected, but it’s disconcerting to see that it is exactly the same as I left it. A pair of old reading glasses atop a stack of magazines and books, the forest green blanket thrown haphazardly over the sofa’s armrest, a cream cardigan I had deemed as lost draped delicately over the armchair. The air is too still, too sullen, and I suddenly feel the urge to open a window. As I do so, Andrea invites herself to her usual place at the far left of the sofa, and the incredibly familiar sight sends a stab of yearning through me.

“Drink?” I offer, somehow managing to steady my voice despite the turmoil swirling rampant in my chest. 

“No, thank you,” Andrea answers, painfully polite.

Nodding silently, I go to take the armchair across from her when suddenly her hand shoots out towards me. I freeze. 

“No,” she says, looking at me with pleading and tired eyes. “Don’t. Just - Sit with me. Please?”

Something inside me desperately wants to object. But how could I refuse her, when she looks at me like that? I knew this was dangerous. All the resolve I have painstakingly built up for the past several weeks trembles unsteadily. Small fragments of it crumble down despite my frantic attempts at keeping it together. It’s no use. I relent, and move to sit on the other side of the couch. My usual place.

We sit in suffocating silence for a long moment. I only manage to look at her briefly before forcing myself to lower my eyes for fear of breaking down altogether.

“So,” I start unsteadily, clearing my throat. “Is everything alright--”

“You didn’t tell me when you came back to the city,” Andrea blurts, the concern and underlying anger in her voice makes my back stiffen with tension. “Nigel told me you’d gone on vacation with the girls, and you didn’t even tell me. But I thought you’d at least let me know when you came back.”

I am too lost for words. Everything in me wants to tell her just how much I’ve wanted to see her. How much I’ve wanted to hear her voice, to hold her close to me. How lost I feel without her. My silence serves to fuel her ire, it seems, because she leans closer towards me, looking at me with such an intense gaze that I feel myself squirm away from her sharp eyes.

“What’s been going on?” She demands. “I can tell you’ve been shutting me out. Did I do something? Are you mad at me?”

I have the ridiculous urge to laugh. As if I could ever be angry with her.

“No. No, that’s not it at all,” I choke out.

“Then _what,_ ” she begs, and the hurt lacing her voice is so bitter that my stomach plummets to the floor. “Because it feels as though you decided to be absent from my life right after Paul left me. You were gone and I needed you.” The realisation of how I have hurt Andrea is like a physical blow, threatening to knock me over. I feel an acidic pain in my chest, like heartburn. “Why did you do that? Why did you push me away?”

“I--” There are no words, no explanations that can satisfy any of her questions without revealing my feelings. Despite feeling terrible, utterly rotten, a panicking part of my mind flares with frantic warning: _She can not know the truth... she can never know._ The last thing I want is her disgust, to be an object of her repulsion for my improper thoughts. Or even worse, her _pity_. “I didn’t mean to.”

It’s a blatant lie. I bite my lip and fervently hope that she will not see through it.

 _“Didn’t mean to?”_ she repeats, dismayed. Her disbelief is etched on every inch of her lovely features, and I know that I am doomed. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks! The last few times we’ve been together you’ve acted like you wanted to be anywhere but with me. It’s like you couldn’t wait to be rid of me. Not to mention all the stilted conversations, like you don’t know how to talk to me anymore. You’re telling me you _‘didn’t mean’_ to do any of that? It just happened accidentally for over a _month?_ ”

Her accusations, steeped in hurt, land between us like debris after a bomb. I don’t know what to say. No matter how much my mind races to find something - _anything_ \- that could explain my behaviour without revealing too much, I am frozen in panic as I realise that my mind is completely blank. Without even thinking, words are slipping past my lips. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She falters, jerking back as if I’d struck her.

“What?” she rasps, her glassy almond eyes never leaving mine. “What do you mean, you didn’t mean to--” I watch, horrified, as her beautiful, wounded eyes fill with tears, her lips parting as the breath rushes out of her. _“Oh.”_

I don’t know what she’s thinking, how she has understood my words, but before I can open my mouth she leaps to her feet and paces away from me.

“You’re _just_ like him,” I hear her whisper brokenly.

I’m about to get up to rush to her side, to fix the damage my thoughtless words had caused, to understand what was going through her mind, when suddenly she rounds on me and pins me to the sofa with an anguished gaze.

“That’s why you pushed me away? Because I’m a _burden_ to you?” she laments, wrapping her arms around her torso.

The blood drains from my face. I feel sick, my stomach turning in on itself and dropping to my feet. 

“No.” I rush to my feet, feeling like I might start crying too. “Andrea--”

“I thought you understood. I _trusted_ you.” 

Her expression is so hurt it’s physically painful to look at, and _God_ , her eyes. Full of betrayal and torment. I stagger closer, hopelessly reaching out to her.

“Andrea--”

“But if I’m just a _burden_ to you, like I am to _everyone_ else,” she cries, her features scrunched up with mourning. “I’ll go.”

I don’t stop to think before pulling her into my arms. She tenses, jerking against me, but I wrap myself around her and bury my face in her neck.

“No,” I speak against her skin, my voice trembling almost as much as the rest of me. I close my eyes, and beg. “No, please, don’t go. Please.”

Andrea stops fighting my embrace, stilling in my arms. She gives a muted sob against my shoulder, and I hold her impossibly closer until we are pressed against each other. Her racing heart pounds against mine.

“You’re not a burden,” I rasp. The words flow from my lips of their own volition. I have no control over myself anymore. I allow myself to stop thinking and surrender to whatever force has taken possession of me. “I _do_ understand you. I _do_ want you.” I place a kiss on her neck. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” A kiss on her jaw. “I love you.” A kiss on her cheek. _“Andrea.”_

Her lips feel soft against mine. Better than anything I’ve ever felt before. Part of me is afraid of what I’ve just done, of how she will react to this, but it is drowned out by the feeling of warmth suffusing my body. For the first time in two years, everything feels _right_. Whatever happens next, I will do everything I can to savour the feeling of her lips.

She murmurs something against me, and her body melts against me. She is kissing me back, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me closer. Soft. Warm. The wet trails of her tears dampen my cheeks as she tilts her head to kiss me more thoroughly. I shakily exhale against her, allowing the love I feel for her to overwhelm me. And yet, after weeks and months and years of drowning, I feel like I can finally breathe. Her hair feels better than silk between my fingers, better than any fabric or garment I have ever touched. Her skin is impossibly soft, her lips so delicate that I can’t help the tears that spill down my face, because _Andrea is kissing me._ Tenderly caressing my hair, my cheek, my neck, her fingertips piece me back together again, making me whole from shards of glass, healing the wounds I had been unable to mend. 

Sighing against my lips, she kisses me once, twice, three more times before moving away. My eyes flutter open as I try to catch my breath, to calm the painful thundering of my heart. Her brown orbs blink open and questioningly gaze at me. Her eyes search mine for long moments, and then something in the irises changes.

“Miranda,” she murmurs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I swallow, and hold her tighter against me, afraid she will leave. But her hands are draped over my shoulders, running her fingers through the short hair at the nape of my neck. 

“I didn’t want to ruin things. I never thought you - _well_.” I didn’t really know how to finish that sentence. Despite everything, I didn’t dare hope.

She smiles tentatively, and I reach up to push a lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture makes her smile brighten, nearly blinding me with her beauty. God, I have missed her so much. How could I ever think I would be able to live without her?

“You didn’t think I would return your feelings?” She said, her smile still bright, but her eyes incredulous. “Miranda, I’ve loved you for a very, very long time. Long before we saw each other again at the Women in Publishing Award Ceremony. I never thought you could ever feel the same for me, so I took what I could get. I accepted that I could only be your friend, but I never stopped loving you.”

_“Oh.”_

My hazy mind tried to wrap itself around her words, understand what she was saying. It was too good to be true. Unbelievable. She felt the same this entire time? I never noticed anything, never thought twice about her relationship with--

“Paul?” I manage to ask, the question slipping out before I can even think to filter myself.

Andy’s expression grew sombre. “I did love him, but if I’m honest, it never compared to the love I feel for you. When we ran into each other again, and you invited me over for a nightcap that first night, something changed between him and I. I knew it wasn’t going to last, because even though I still cared about him, I knew deep down I wanted to be with you. But in my mind, that wasn’t a possibility. So the best I could do was try with someone else who I kinda loved too, right?” She paused to take a shuddering breath. “When he broke up with me, I started losing hope that I could ever be happy with anyone that wasn’t you. It was proof that no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t make a relationship work if I still had feelings for you. Your friendship meant more to me than my relationship with him.” I blink at her, speechless. All this time, she loved me. _Me._ “I never thought you’d feel the same way for me. God, we’re both so stupid.”

She chuckles, pulling me tighter against her. I marvel at her.

“Andrea.” I breathe out her name like a benediction. 

I don’t know what I’m trying to say, or what I’m asking of her, but the pleading tone in my voice is unmistakable. My eyes rove over her face, taking every detail in as she gazes up at me with so much affection and unfiltered joy that the air catches in my throat. In shedding the agony that has been embedded in me for so long, I’m overwhelmed with relief and exhilaration and regret and a thousand other things that it’s almost a physical pain. I decide immediately that I like this better.

Her eyes flicker to my lips, and I realise I’m smiling too. It feels honest and true on my face; full of happiness and hope as I gaze at my Andrea, revelling in the bliss of having her in my arms and the knowledge that she will not leave me this time. She leans closer, and my eyelids flutter shut as her lips find mine for another kiss. It lights me up from within, filling me with such love and warmth and tenderness that I can’t help but smile against her mouth. 

I know I won’t be so alone anymore.

  
  
  


.oOo.

  
  
  


_July, 2014_

  
  


I grip the steering wheel with my left hand, my right one affectionately entangled with a warm, soft hand. Traffic is thin at this time of the evening on a Sunday, and the car breezes through the streets. It has been six months of feeling like this on my way home. I remember when I used to stay at the _Runway_ offices for as long as possible, desperately trying to avoid coming home to a painfully empty house. I remember the dread that would settle in my stomach each night on my way home, hating the silence that engulfed me when I walked through the front door. Now, things couldn’t be more different. Each day, I anticipate going home in the evening. I leave work as early as I can, and butterflies fly in my abdomen at the thought of who awaits me when I get home.

“It’s good to be back,” Caroline says from the passenger seat, and I squeeze her hand in silent agreement. “I really needed this break. I can’t wait for our holiday, but I still can’t believe you won’t tell us where we’re going.”

I smile at that. For the past two months, the girls have been trying to convince me to tell them about our summer vacation plans. Little do they know, they have someone talking me into doing the exact opposite, and she has much more leverage than my daughters - to their chagrin. 

“It was Andrea’s idea. I believe she wants to surprise you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Caroline roll her eyes. I wonder where she got that from.

She talks for the rest of the car ride, and I listen as she tells me about her classes and her projects, her essays and tutors and classmates. It fills my heart to hear her speak so happily about her life in Oxford. Makes me feel like the loneliness I endured after their departure wasn’t for naught. My daughters know that their happiness is the most important thing to me.

Well, theirs and Andrea’s.

When we arrive at the townhouse, I help Caroline haul her suitcases up the stairs, and she dumps them on the foyer without a care the moment Cassidy flies down the stairs to greet her. I smile as I watch them, warmed at the sight of them embracing tightly and talking over each other. Cassidy plants “grandma smooches” on Caroline’s cheek until Caroline manages to break free from the attack. 

I open my arms to them, and they both rush forward to squeeze me between them, their strong arms flung around me. It has become a tradition that the moment we are finally together, the three of us, after months away from each other, we must have our family hug. Words always fail to describe how good it feels, how sweet it is to smell their hair and revel in their easy laughter. 

The moment they let me go, they share mischievous grins and dash upstairs, their feet pounding on the floor boards and their delighted giggles and loud, enthusiastic voices filling the house. I close my eyes and smile, enjoying the sounds I have so dearly missed. The tell-tale happiness at finally having my girls back home fills me with immeasurable joy and relief.

I make my way down the hall, and stop at the entrance to the study. Two bundles of black and white fur are stretched out beside one another on the armchair, looking like a feline version of the Yin and Yang symbol. I walk towards them, and Medusa opens her bi-coloured eyes as I come near her. She purrs with delight as I scratch her behind the ears, and the sound awakens her sleeping companion.

Lilith is the newest addition to the family - a stray cat that Andrea rescued from the street. Her shiny black fur contrasts beautifully with Medusa’s, and the two are thick as thieves. I admit I was dismayed when Andrea first brought Lilith home, on account of the poor cat having one missing eye. The vet told us that it probably happened because of a cat fight, and now a jagged scar lays where there should have been a soft yellow eye the colour of honey. Luckily, my concerns were for naught, because the vet deemed Lilith perfectly healthy, and she wasn’t completely blind, after all. Andrea and I have seen the timid black cat flourish into a confident, affectionate being that loved sleeping on either of our laps and sleeping at the foot of our bed, curled up next to Andrea’s feet.

“Hello, gorgeous,” I cooed at her as she stretched her front legs and looked up at me with her good eye. I ran my fingers through her soft fur, smiling as she rubbed her face against my palm. “How on earth did you two manage to sleep through the hurricane that is my daughters?”

They both gave me identical blank expressions, and I chuckled at the image they made. _What a pair._

As I turned to leave, Medusa began to groom Lilith’s fur, running her tongue over her shoulder and the side of her face. _Not unlike their owners._

When I step into the kitchen, the sight that encounters me makes me smile. Andrea is cooking in front of the stove, faintly dancing to an upbeat song I don’t recognise and singing the lyrics sporadically, as someone who doesn’t know all the words would. The room smells delightfully of garlic, onions, and home-made bread. I take a deep breath, and feel myself fully relax as I step further into the room.

Snatching the half full wine glass from the table, I lean against the counter and contentedly sip at it as I watch the woman I love. When Andrea reaches for the oregano herbs, she catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye. The smile that lights up her face takes my breath away, even after all this time.

“Hey,” she says, and turns down the heat of the stove before she makes her way towards me. Two toned arms wrap themselves around my middle as Andrea pressed her body flush against mine. She feels wonderful against me. “When did you get back?”

“Just a minute ago,” I answer, flinging my arm over her shoulder. I play with a tendril of her hair falling in casual waves from her ponytail.

“Caroline?”

“All good. She and her sister rushed upstairs to get up to God knows what,” I say this with a fair amount of snarky despair that is all for show. A smile tugs at my lips.

Andrea chuckles. “Glad to have them back, huh?”

“Very,” I smile fully now, and take a sip of wine. Andrea eyes it pointedly.

“I believe that is my glass of wine you just stole.”

“Oh?” I blink innocently at her.

“I’m gonna have to fine you for that, I’m afraid.” She smirks, her eyes playful.

“Really?”

“Hmm. It’s the downside to being a thief.”

Before I can reply, Andrea leans forward and captures my lips in a tender kiss. I hum in delight, pulling her closer against me.

How could I ever again dread coming home, when this is what awaits me?

The sound of the girls clamouring down the stairs like elephants makes me pull back enough to roll my eyes heavenward, and Andrea giggles at my reaction. When they appear in the doorway, Caroline excitedly exclaims, “Andy!”

Andrea lets her arms fall away from around my middle in order to step forward and pull my eldest daughter by six minutes into a bear hug. 

“It’s good to have you back, sweetheart,” I hear Andrea say to her, and I smile warmly at the sight of the obvious love between Andrea and my daughters. 

Cassidy catches my eye and winks at me before sneaking a breadstick from the table.

“It’s so good to be home,” Caroline says as she pulls away with a grin. “God, it smells delicious. I’ve missed your home-cooked meals.”

Andrea chuckles. “Well if you wanna eat any of it, you gotta help set the table.”

Dinner is a buoyant, happy affair, filled with laughter and stories from the girls’ lives at college. The food Andrea made is delicious, and the air feels warm around us. I take a moment to look around me, drinking in the moment, committing it to memory. The three joyful faces of the people I love most in the world, their shared mirth and comfortable conversation. I feel a now recognisable but treasured feeling of bliss that elates me whenever I’m with my family like this. I would have never guessed that life could be filled with such happiness.

As Andrea’s loving eyes meet mine across the table, I can’t help but think that yes, this is exactly how I like it.


End file.
